”Thank you for joining us on 93.1 The Groove and welcome to this years broadcast of Battle Creek’s K vs 12 ball game. I’m your host Al Average, joined by my friend and former K vs 12 superstar Bob Beltburner. How you doin Bobby?” ”Ill tell you what Al, it’s good to be here on this beautiful sunny day to watch this ball game.” ”And what a game it will be. Who do you think has the advantage this year Bob?” ”Well Al, the high school baseball team has won every year so it’s hard to vote against them. However, the kindergartners this year have a lot of spunk. It might be a long shot but they may make history and make it past the first inning.” ”Wouldn’t that be something! Let’s go down to our sideline reporter Jeff Sparrow. How you doin J-bird?” “Im doing good Al. I just finished talking to the coach of the kindergartners. I asked him how his team prepared for this matchup and he told me that being mentally ready is 90% of the prep. He doesn’t want his team to be intimidated by the size of their opponents or how fast the ball is coming at them. I asked him what the other 10% is, and he said prayer! Back to you Al!” ”Thanks J-bird. We are just about ready for the first pitch of the game but first we’ll pause 10 seconds for station identification.” Your listening to Al and Bob on A.M 93.1 The Groove! ”Welcome back to this years radio coverage of Battle Creek’s K vs 12 baseball game on 93.1 The Groove. We are ready for the first inning of the game. The kindergartners will bat first so that they have a chance. Lead off for the kindergartners is little Johnny Lewis. Batting 2nd is 5 year old Freddy Schoomacher. 3rd is Mason Matthews. And batting in the cleanup spot is the adorable Gretchen Christianson. Rounding out the lineup is Johnnys twin brother Billy Lewis, Alicia Keystone, John Garfield, Christopher Brown, and batting last is Alexis Engleschmidt.” ”Play Ball!” ”And here we go with little Johnny up to bat. The bat is bigger than him but his heart is bigger than the world. Here’s the pitch... “Striiiike one!” “Curveball to the outside catches Johnny of guard.” ”That’s a really good pitch Al. It’ll be interesting to see if Johnny is even able to lift the bat let alone swing it.” “Right you are Bob. Here comes the second pitch...” “Striiiike two!” “That’s a fastball down the middle. Poor Johnny didn’t even see it coming.” “He’s still struggling with that bat Al.” “That he is Bob, but our little Johnny isn’t a quitter. Johnny lines himself up. Eyes focused on the pitcher, the bat hanging down by his ankles. Here’s the pitch... and the ball bounces off of Johnnys bat into the infield! Johnny takes off for first and he is...... out! Aww, poor Johnny tried to slide but was a good three feet short of first base.” “You gotta give him props though Al. Despite his struggles lifting the bat, he still found a way to get contact on the ball.” “He is an inspiration to us all Bob. Sometimes life throws you a fastball and the best you can do is get in the way and hope it bounces off you. Next up is Freddy Schoomaker. He drags his bat to the plate wearing a blue dinosaur onesie.” “He’s always been one to make a statement with his fashion Al.” “And what a statement he is making! Freddie grips his bat tight. He’s holding it upside down but no on cares. Here’s the pitch.... AND HE HITS IT! The ball flys two feet from the plate and Freddie flys to first!” “This is why he’s on the team this year Al. He’s a heavy hitter with his style and his swing!” “Makes me want a get a dinosaur onesie for myself. It sounds like our sideline reporter Jeff Sparrow has something for us. Down to you J-Bird.” “Thanks Al! I just finished talking to the kindergartners cleanup hitter Gretchen Christianson. I asked her what motivates her to play hard despite the odds being stacked against her. She proceeded to yell ‘STRANGER DANGER’ and kick me in the shin. Back to you Al.” “Keep kicking those strangers Gretchen! Back to the field and Mason Matthews is at the plate. He seems to be holding a rolling pin instead of a bat. What do you make of that Bob?” “These kindergartners are getting creative. The bats are heavy so they are adapting. We saw Freddie hold his bat upside down allowing him to balance it easier, and now Mason opts to skip the bat and use a rolling pin. This is a gamble that might pay off in the end.” “Let’s hope he knows what he’s doing! Here’s the pitch...... “Striiiike one!” “Oooh a swing and a miss for Matthews.” “That rolling pin is easier to swing Al, but it is quite a bit shorter than a bat. Mason is going to have to stand closer to the path of the ball if he wants to have a chance, but he raises the risk of being hit as well.” “A precarious situation indeed Bobby boy. Here comes the pitch..... And It’s A Hit! Mason to first and Freddie to second! My oh my do we have a ballgame folks!” “What a hit Al! Rather than waiting for the ball to come to him, Mason throws the pin at the oncoming ball, giving him his first hit of the day, and giving life to his team!” “Next up is Gretchen Christianson, but first a word from our sponsors.” “Are you tired of your boring old narrators? Do you crave a voice that breaths life into your short stories? Are you a narrator looking for the perfect stories to capture your essence? Look no further! MyNarrator is just for you! We use our perfect match making formula to select the right narrator to the right writer. Not sure you believe us? Listen to these testimonies from real MyNarrator customers:” ‘As a sentient coffee maker, it’s been hard to find a writer who isn’t scared of me or who tries to destroy me with fire. However, MyNarrator found me a writer who not only wrote stories that I believed in but who also believed in me!’ ‘I was interested in finding a narrator but I didn’t want anything serious. I just wanted someone who would do one story and then leave. No commitment, just reading. MyNarrator allows me to find those who are looking for the same thing. I now have several different books with several different narrators. Thank you MyNarrator!” “Find your perfect match on MyNarrator today!” “Welcome back! Your listening to 93.1 The Groove with our broadcast of Battle Creek’s yearly K vs 12 baseball game. Still in the top of the first inning, the score is zero to zero. The kindergartners are looking hopeful, and the high schoolers indifferent. What are your thoughts on the game so far Bob?” “Honestly Al, I’m surprised the kindergartners are still on the field. Their opponents tower over them and nap time was 20 minutes ago. You gotta admire their resilience.” “That you do Bob. Gretchen Christianson is at the plate holding holding what looks like a teddy bear. Interesting choice eh Bobby?” “Yeah this isn’t a tactic we have seen before. The teddy bear is easy to swing but i would think it would be much to soft to send the ball in play. Even if by chance the ball is hit in play, it won’t be going very far.” “She wouldn’t hit the ball far no matter what. She’s only 6 years old Bob.” “Good point Al. “The pitcher winds up, Gretchen grips her teddy bear by one of its legs. Here’s the pitch.....Holy Cow, Gretchen smashes the ball into left field! Boy did she make us look foolish! Freddy runs to third, Mason is napping at first, and Gretchen slides into second! What is that teddy bear made of bob?” “Hope Al. Th..th..that teddy bear is filled with hope!” “You seem to be choking up Bob.” “I’ve never seen something so beautiful! No kindergartner has hit a double or made it to third base in all the years of Battle Creek’s K vs 12 games, and Gretchen Christianson made both those things possible today.” “Shes something else isn’t she Bob? Now to our sideline reporter. What you got Jeff?” “It turns out Al, that despite the name, softballs are not soft. Getting hit with one really hurts! Back to you.” “You always tell us the most interesting facts Jeff. Well what a game it has been so far! Unfortunately the kindergarten team has forfeited because they all fell asleep. Like Bob said earlier, nap time was over 20 minutes ago and nobody expected this game to last so long.” “Your right Al, we didn’t expect the kindergartners to last two minutes, but by golly they proved us wrong! They came out and proved what a group can accomplish when they are united. Those little kids have given the world hope!” “No doubt Bob. They have also shown that nap time is more important than winning. Well, it has been a pleasure having you listeners join us today. My name is Al Average and on behalf of Bob Beltburner, Jeff Sparrow, and the rest of the crew we bid you farewell and thank you for listening to 93.1 The Groove.” (fade out with “Head Over Heals by Tears for Fears)


“Everything will come to me at the right time,” she thought to herself as she pulled the warm blanket even closer around her body. The room was cold, warmed only by the heat from the fire crackling in the fireplace; the sound of the wood snapping echoed through the room. She sat in a wooden chair, watching the raindrops slide down the glass panes of the window. Outside, the wind played with the leaves, sending them wherever it pleased. “Autumn has begun,” she whispered aloud and smiled. She loved this time of year. That moment when nature began to fall asleep, yet everything around was still full of colour and life. Autumn always meant a new beginning for her. It was a time when her thoughts calmed when she found inner peace. Her gaze stopped on a single raindrop slowly slipping down the windowpane. “How much longer will I have to wait?” she thought, even though she knew the answer to that question was not in her hands. Everything has its time, and she knew that better than anyone else. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She listened to the soft crackling of the wood in the fireplace, which soothed her. The blanket, which wrapped around her like a protective cocoon, shielded her from the outside world. But inside, deep beneath her calm surface, a feeling of anticipation simmered. Something was about to happen. Something that would change her life forever. She picked up a book, hoping to lose herself in the story, as she often did. She drifted between the words but couldn’t focus--her inner feelings overwhelmed her, and she was tense without knowing why. The rain was slowly subsiding, the droplets still hitting the rooftops, but not as intensely as before. She could no longer sit at home. Something inside her pulled her outside, towards something she couldn’t yet name, but she sensed it was waiting for her out there. Urgently, she prepared for a walk. She wanted to absorb the magic of autumn’s beauty, to feel the damp earth beneath her feet and the cold wind on her face. The soft blanket, which had shielded her from the chill until now, gently slipped from her body and settled back into the chair. The fire in the hearth was beginning to die down, so she carefully stirred the ashes and let the flames disappear entirely. Rosie, her faithful companion, sensed it was time for a walk. Her long golden fur shimmered with each step, like rays of sunlight, and her joyful wagging tail created a soft breeze that brushed against Emma’s face. Smiling, she fastened Rosie’s black collar, put on her warm jacket, and slipped into her tall boots with a feeling that something big was about to happen. When she opened the door, she was greeted by the fresh, cool air scented with rain. She closed her eyes and let the scent seep deep into her soul for a moment. Then she stepped forward. It was as if she were walking into the unknown. She stepped outside, Rosie excitedly running beside her. The grass was still wet, and she heard the soft water splashing beneath her boots with every step. The world around her seemed as if it had just awakened--droplets sparkled on the leaves, the air was fresh, and every breath brought her a new surge of energy. She felt how the walk was slowly freeing her from her inner tension, though that feeling of anticipation still bubbled within. They walked through the forest she usually visited, but today, it felt different. Something in the air was new, unfamiliar. She stopped for a moment and closed her eyes, trying to grasp the feeling. The wind gently caressed her face as if trying to tell her something. When she opened her eyes, she saw something in the distance that hadn’t been there before--a wooden bridge, old and worn, standing on the path she walked every day. With Rosie by her side, she cautiously approached. The bridge looked as though it had stood for hundreds of years, covered in moss and lichen, creaking with every step. It was strange. How could she have missed something so old and dilapidated? When they reached the other side of the bridge, something shifted inside her. She felt as if she had crossed a boundary between what she knew and something completely new. Rosie suddenly stopped and barked towards the forest. In the dark shadows between the trees, something moved--a figure, faint, as if it were merely part of the wind. Her heart raced. “What was that?” she whispered, feeling the chill creep under her jacket, though she had been warm just moments before. Something pulled her further, deeper into the forest, though she didn’t know what she would find there. Rosie, who usually ran about happily and carelessly, suddenly stiffened. Her body was tense, ears pricked, eyes fixed on where the strange figure had been. Her tail, which had been wagging just moments before, now stood still as if she, too, sensed something had changed. She barked in a deep, warning tone that Emma had heard only rarely. “Rosie?” she spoke softly and placed her hand on the dog’s head. Rosie didn’t move. She just stood there, as if waiting for something to come, her whole body tense, ready for action. The wind stirred lightly among the trees again, but this time, it wasn’t a pleasant autumn breeze. It brought with it a chill that penetrated to the bone. Rosie began to growl, a quiet, deep growl that Emma could feel under her hand. It was unusual--Rosie was usually so calm, so friendly. “What did you see, girl?” she whispered. Rosie suddenly moved as if receiving a silent command. She darted forward toward the spot where she had been staring earlier, into the dense thicket of trees. Her growling intensified, but she stayed close to Emma’s leg as if unwilling to leave her side for even a moment. The image of that vague figure still flickered in her mind. Was it something real or just a trick of light and shadows? Despite her growing unease, Emma stepped forward in the direction Rosie had taken. The air around her seemed to grow heavier with every step as if something invisible was holding her back. She pushed forward into the dense foliage, Rosie still growling softly by her side. As they drew closer, the wind suddenly stopped, and an eerie silence fell over the forest. The figure she had glimpsed earlier had vanished, but the strange encounter still lingered in her thoughts. Was it just a trick of the light or something more? Suddenly, she heard footsteps--quick and light. She turned and saw the silhouette of a man walking toward her from a distance. He was dressed in a long coat, moving like a ghost quietly and effortlessly. Rosie, who had been growling moments before, suddenly stopped and stared at the stranger. Her ears were still perked, but now there was silence, as if she, too, was waiting for the next move. “Who are you?” Emma called out softly, as the man drew closer within earshot. The stranger stopped just a few meters from her. His eyes were piercing, cold, yet they revealed nothing of his intentions. He held a small package wrapped in string. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said quietly, his voice sounding strange, as if it were part of the forest itself. Something about his tone unsettled her. How could he know who she was? “What do you mean?” she asked, while Rosie remained tense at her side. The man slowly nodded toward the package. “This package is for you,” he said. “But you must take it without asking why.” Emma didn’t want to take it; every cell in her body was sending warning signals. Everything inside her screamed, “Run!” She felt cold creeping over her skin, and her hands trembled. Curiosity overcame her, though, and she stepped closer to the man, ignoring the warnings her body was giving. With each step, the tension grew, and Rosie’s ears were pinned back, her tail signalling fear. Still, Emma refused to be deterred and moved closer to the mysterious stranger. She approached the man until they were within arm’s reach. The package looked harmless enough, yet it radiated something unsettling. Rosie stayed by her side, lightly growling, but she remained close. Emma reached for the package, her fingers hesitating for just a split second before gripping it. As soon as she touched it, she felt a faint pressure, as if warmth was draining from her hand. The man didn’t flinch. He just watched her with a cold gaze, as though he had been waiting a long time for this moment to arrive. “Now, you must go,” he whispered. “Go? Where?” Emma instinctively took a step back, still clutching the package. A creeping sense of realisation began to dawn on her--that she had embarked on a journey from which there might be no return. “What’s inside the package?” The man interrupted her with a look colder than the wind that had passed through them. “The answers will come in time,” he said monotonously. “But for now, you must go in the direction your heart leads you.” Emma glanced back at Rosie, who was still watching the stranger intently. The dog pressed against her leg nervously. Emma took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and then nodded. Something was pulling her forward. Maybe it was the unknown; maybe it was simple curiosity--she couldn’t tell. But she clutched the package tightly, as if it were the key to something she would never understand otherwise. “Alright then,” she whispered. She turned on her heel and walked in the direction that had drawn her deeper into the forest. She could still feel the man’s eyes on her back, as if he was following her even now as she moved further away. Rosie stayed unusually quiet beside her, but the tension in her body revealed that something was still not right. The path ahead of them, which led deeper into the woods, was growing darker. Although Emma had walked this path many times before, today it felt different. It was narrower, more overgrown, and with each step, it seemed more foreign to her. When they finally reached a small clearing, Emma stopped. She had never been here before, yet she felt as though she belonged. The air here was heavier, but it was filled with a strange energy. The package in her hand began to vibrate faintly. She looked down at it carefully. “What does this mean?” she whispered to herself as she gently untied the string. She opened the package, and what she saw inside made her freeze. Inside was a small, ancient-looking key. But something about it seemed familiar, though she couldn’t place where she had seen it before. Rosie started to growl softly. Emma turned, but this time, there was nothing behind them but the rustling trees. Still, she felt as though something--or someone--was watching her. The package was now open, the key held tightly in her hand, and her heart beating faster than ever--Emma knew this was only the beginning. The key had an ancient appearance, with delicate patterns that resembled something long forgotten. It emanated mystery. It seemed like it was made just for her. She was almost certain she had seen it somewhere before. Every detail of the key felt strangely familiar. The tension in the air palpable. Emma knew there was no turning back now. She was here, in a place that seemed to have been waiting for her. She lifted her eyes and looked around. The forest appeared the same, but something in the air was different--heavier, filled with a tension that slowly expanded with every passing moment. “So, what now?” she whispered to herself, her breath more shallow than she realised. Emma could feel her hands trembling, yet she couldn’t take her eyes off the key. Something urged her to take a step forward. Rosie followed at her side, still nervous, but obedient. And then she heard it. A faint scratching, as if something hidden underground wanted to be heard. Her gaze fell on a stone in the center of the clearing. It looked like an ordinary boulder, but as she stepped closer, she noticed engravings similar to those on the key. The stone was covered in age-old moss and leaves, yet the engravings on its surface remained clear, almost glowing. “Here it is,” she said to herself, feeling the key pulse lightly in her hand. She knelt beside the boulder and gently brushed away the moss. There was something like a slot--just the right size for the key to fit. Emma hesitated for a moment, glancing at Rosie, who now stood silently beside her, tense but ready. “Alright then,” she whispered, her heart skipping a beat. She gently inserted the key into the slot, and after a slight resistance, the key clicked into place with a soft sound. At that moment, the clearing changed. The air around her rippled, as though something in the world had shifted. The ground beneath her hands began to tremble slightly, but it wasn’t frightening--it felt more like she was awakening something that had been waiting for this moment for centuries. Emma stood up and stepped back. Her heart pounded, and Rosie began growling softly again. She didn’t dare approach the boulder. From the slot where the key had fit, a faint light began to emerge--at first barely visible, but gradually growing stronger until it illuminated the entire clearing. And then the stone began to slowly move aside, as if responding to a magical mechanism the key had triggered. Emma felt a shiver run down her spine, but she didn’t dare move. She knew she was on the brink of something unknown, something that would change her life forever. Beneath the stone appeared a small entrance leading down into the earth. Warm air flowed up from the opening, carrying a strange scent--like old books and ancient forests. Emma exchanged a glance with Rosie, who was still tense. It seemed as though the dog now understood that this was the path they had to follow. Emma stood at the edge of the opening. “What now?” she asked herself, though she already knew the answer. She had to go in. The package given to her by the stranger was now open, and its contents--the key--had unlocked a path to places she was meant to discover. She didn’t know what awaited her there, but an inner strength and curiosity pulled her forward. She took one last deep breath, looked at Rosie, and stepped into the darkness beneath the earth, leaving behind the forest, the bridge, and everything she had known until now. Her every movement was slow, almost ceremonial. The key in her hand now glowed with a soft light, illuminating the way. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stood before massive doors that looked as though they hadn’t been touched for hundreds of years. Intricate engravings, glittered on their surface. She placed the key against the door, and with a deep, distant sound, they swung open. Beyond them was darkness. But in the middle of that darkness, something faintly shimmered, as if beckoning her closer. Emma knew she should step inside--she felt that this was the journey she was meant to take--but suddenly, she hesitated. Something inside her made her stop and think again. Once she stepped through, her life could change forever. What if there was no turning back? She stood at the threshold, her heart pounding wildly. She knew that what lay beyond was important. But was she ready to face it? “You have time,” a quiet voice spoke behind her. Emma jumped and turned. She recognised the voice. It was the man who had given her the package. He stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes gleaming in the faint light of the key. “You can choose, Emma. Go forward, or turn back. But remember, once you step through, there’s no going back.” “What’s behind those doors?” she asked. The man smiled, but it was a joyless smile. “The answers you seek. But they are not answers that come easily. They may change everything you’ve ever known.” Emma glanced at the doors again. The shimmering light behind them called to her as if it were waiting. She knew she couldn’t go on living with the questions that had haunted her. But at the same time, she felt a fear of what she might uncover. Rosie nudged her hand gently. Emma realised she wasn’t alone. Rosie was with her. And even though the man remained a mystery, he had given her the choice. Emma took a deep breath, then stepped forward onto the threshold. But just as she was about to cross the doorway, she felt a sudden tremor. Her heart stopped for a moment, and then she heard something in the darkness beyond the doors. Faint whispers slipped into her mind, as if they were beckoning her closer. “You must decide now,” the man said calmly. “Before it’s too late.” Emma stood on the edge, still clutching the key in her hand. She knew that once she took that step forward, everything would change. But what if she turned back? What if she decided not to open these doors? There were too many unknowns. Her body trembled, her breath caught in her throat, as if something dark was squeezing her chest. Cold sweat trickled down her back, and her shaking hands could barely hold onto the key. Her heart raced as she looked back at Rosie, who was watching her silently, and then at the man. All eyes were now on her. And in that moment, she made her decision.


I sat across from the Job Fair lady at one of those long auditorium tables. Army recruitment was at the next booth and on my other side some creepy guy in a blazer was selling training in Real Estate. There were hundreds of booths and most were offering training rather than jobs. “So, what have you been doing since High School?” The Job Fair Lady continued. She didn’t like what I said about school, but she had one of those nodding smiles people put on when they think they’re being nice. “Chess.” “Chess?” “Yea, my uncle’s got a second-hand shop. It’s full of crap. Like electronics no one wants anymore. Oh, but he gets these computer chairs. Like, from offices that have gone out of business. These are good chairs. Cost you hundreds. And he’ll, like, sell them for fifty bucks each. It’s better than these things.” I shifted my bum on what seemed to be a cheap, unpadded, cafeteria chair. “Chess?” “Yea, I was at my uncle’s store and I found a chess set and it was in a tube. A tube. My uncle pulls it out and it’s got a fabric board. It’s vinyl. He flattens it out on his cash counter and then he’s got an old dusty chess clock. It’s made of wood. It’s two clocks in the same box. You wind it up the clocks and then you press the top button on your side and the other guy’s clock starts. He makes his move, hits his button, and then you’re your clock starts. You only got so much time to make your moves and if your time runs out, you lose.” “Did you do this professionally?” The Job Fair lady interrupted. “I got pretty far. I started playing with my uncle. I went to his shop everyday, because I wasn’t doing anything else with my life since High School. And my uncle says one day, ‘You got a real mind for tactical chess. You’re a real tactician, but you have to learn positional chess. Go to the Library and get a book on chess openings. Look at Ruy Lopez and Queen’s Gambit openings. The first five or six moves, so you’re not getting beat in the openings.’” “Did your uncle play professionally?” “Oh, he knew what he was doing. Like, I’d lose a game to him and he’d show me how I lost. He’d say, like, ‘Look, you didn’t develop your centre. The pieces on your Queen’s side couldn’t get out. See this? This is a Monk Bishop. You know why it’s a Monk? Because it can’t... it doesn’t...it can’t interact with the other pieces because it’s buried behind your pawns. It can’t come out and play. You see it's a Monk because it doesn’t...” The Job Fair lady held up a hand to stop me from explaining any further. “What skills does chess give you that you feel would benefit an employer?” “Alright, you’re ahead of me. So, my uncle he teaches me about positional chess, touch move, openings, gambit’s, playing the man, en passant, oh, and he’d say, ‘Remember to make loud slurping noises when you take your opponent’s pieces.’ That was his joke. He didn’t mean it for real.” “Did you play anyone beside your uncle?” “Oh, yeah. I joined Hamilton Chess Club. They’re part of the Chess Federation. And they matter because when I started, I was an unrated player. And if you’re going to get anywhere you want to become a rated player. I played all these other guys at the Club for a while, and they said I was a fifteen hundred player. A new guy usually comes in at thirteen-fifty, but I was already at fifteen hundred player. An Expert is a two thousand rating, a Master is Twenty-Two Hundred, and a Grandmaster is twenty-five hundred. I entered my first Chess Tournament to get my rating. “Only the problem was the guys I had to play were from out of town. It was weekend tournament. Five rounds. One Friday night, two each Saturday and Sunday. Most of us still had wooden clocks. They’re moving to these quiet plastic ones. But we had wood.” The Job Fair lady made of face of what’s the difference. “If you slap your button on a wooden clock you can hear it across the church auditorium. I played this guy Friday night and my nose started running. I’m going to the bathroom for toilet paper to wipe my face because my snot’s about to drip, drip over the board. I beat the guy but he was unrated like me. “Saturday it rained. All day. My nose isn’t running anymore so much but my head is totally clogged. It’s just pounding. The guy I was playing was a fifteen hundred player and I slaughtered him. I can’t even remember the game. The evening guy had a seventeen-fifty rating. The day was going on forever and I couldn’t sit still waiting all the time. “These guys took forever to make their moves. You had the clocks, but it was like you make forty moves in ninety minutes, and then a half hour to finish the game after the ninety minutes. If you both used most of your time the first forty moves could take almost three hours. That’s almost four hours to finish the game if you’re both taking eternity to checkmate the other guy. The games were taking forever and I was sick as a dog. “The girl I was playing that night was taking twenty minutes for each of her opening moves. Like, if you know your openings there are only so many moves. Most players can do their first four or fives moves in two minutes because they know the openings. I don’t know what this girl was thinking in her moves. I kept running to the bathroom because I thought I was going to throw up all the time. I even went out for a cigarette in the rain. I know smoking makes most people sick, but I was smoking to stop from being sick. “I beat the girl. Then as I was packing up, she wants to go over the game. Compare our moves. She gets real upset with me that I don’t want to relive all that crap again. “Sunday morning, I wasn’t sick anymore but still felt awful. I brought a newspaper to the tournament. I was playing an Expert. A two thousand player, or close to. I didn’t expect to win. I tried not to trade any pieces with the guy. I tried to keep all the pieces in play and not make it easy for him. Mostly, I read my newspaper. He was another guy who took forever. There’s a strategy where you use your opponent’s time to think of your next move and save on your clock time. But I’m not that bright. I waited for him to press my clock and then I’d think about my move. “Then something I wasn’t even thinking about happened. He got up and stood looking at the chess board like he was afraid to leave it. He was shifting on his feet back and forth. He had to go to the bathroom. It was like he was afraid to leave the game. He kept studying the board. Then I saw his clock time. Fifteen minutes left in his first two hours. He had made twenty-seven moves so far. My clock only said twenty minutes. I had only used twenty-two minutes to make the same number of moves. This Expert had only had fifteen minutes to make thirteen moves, or he would lose the game. “He really had to go to the bathroom. I figured at this point if he was this wound up about leaving the board it wasn’t because he had to pee, it was because he had to have a sit down in the bathroom. His hand hovered over his queen but he knew not to touch it. Touch move. If he moved his queen, he was dead. He looked like he was going to burst. He moved his knight. It was the safe move. He rushed to get to the bathroom. “Okay, so, this next part, I couldn’t help myself. I had used his time to think of my next move and I made that move and I slammed the wooden clock button. You could hear it through the church auditorium. He stopped next the restroom like a cartoon character and turned around and ran back to the board. He tilted the cock to read his time and hovered his hand over different pieces on the board to try to make a quick move. Finally, he didn’t make any move. He walked away from the board. “When my opponent returned from the restroom he looked like he had definitely relived himself, but he had only eight minutes left to make twelve moves. I folded my newspaper and got down to business. He slapped his moves quick now and got in under the limit. Now it was thirty minutes for the rest of the game. He beat me. “When it was over, he wanted to show me all the ways I almost had him in trouble. Whatever. Then he shook my hand and said for no one else to hear, ‘That was very rude of you.’ He was right. I didn’t know what to say to the guy. Then you know what he says? ‘It’s rude to bring a newspaper to a chess tournament.’ “Last guy I played had a lower rating and we played to a stalemate, and after the tournament they calculated my rating as eighteen-fifty. I was near being an Expert, my first tournament. I mean, they didn’t agree, but I saw it that way.” The Job Fair lady looked at me. “Do you play now? Are you professional?” “Oh, no, nothing like that. You know at this tournament there were guys and girls who carried encyclopaedias of chess moves with them. Thousand of pages. It’s like they’re walking around with Bibles. I can’t do that. My brain can’t stretch that far.” “So, this was a hobby? Nobody paid you? You couldn’t make a living at this?” “Well, I wouldn’t know how. I wouldn’t want to.” The Job fair lady nodded. “That’s interesting.” She said and smiled in that way that she thought she was still being nice. “Now, what have you been doing since High School?”


Deep breaths. It's almost time. I've been waiting years for this exact moment. It cost me everything. Quite literally to be exact. I was a soldier. A man of war and violence. I did it for 45 years and for all that time I've been gifted with nothing but pain and pity and sympathy. All thoughtless. Just because of who I was, what I morphed into. First, it was my left arm. I lost it to an infection after I attempted to throw a plasma charge back at the men who attacked us. The cost of my arm was worth saving my friends. The damn thing was burned. Completely charred from my fingers down to the elbow. The company I was with treated me great at first. They gave me an advanced model Titan limb module. It was almost like having my full arm back. Fluid control. Almost zero process time for actions to be made. It made me a little slower but I could still fight. At least good enough to be asked to join a special ops group when I finished my third tour. I joined, of course. The others on the team all had, “enhancements” as they called them. It made us better. After being successful in our operations, they asked if any one of us would take part in a new program that attempted to test the length our tech enhancements would go. I liked the power it gave me. They took my other arm. I was stronger. I couldn't lift a car but still above average. My legs were next. I could survive a fall landing directly on my feet without any damage from over 30 feet. I felt like it was the next step for humans. I had been one of the last 3 people left from the original starting 8. They asked for one last test. They said our bodies could handle it. A new neural implant. It was supposed to make us even better. Better than humans. Beyond that. We all went at the same time. I walked out of the operation. The others not so much. I was the program's success. The only success. They used me from then on. Attacking smaller militia. Things not even worth my time. It was nonsense. All political repositioning. Kill this warlord here. Kill this revolution leader there. I became a puppet. Then I took some damage to the implant in my head. I had to retire but that doesn't take away what I experienced. It happened when I came to realize what I had become. I was knocked over when I stood watching a child sob and grab at the body of their mother. She was the voice of some revolutionary cabal. After that, I was glad it was over but not long after I had become accustomed to normal life, things began to change. First I would lose feeling in my hands. Then my legs would spasm randomly, my vision would blur. Then I heard it. It was a second voice in my head. Different from my own inner thought. Slightly distorted. “They did this to you”, he kept whispering. I tried to reach out to my contact with the program director and got nothing. It kept saying that I needed to do something about what they did to me. I didn’t listen at first. Why would they ignore me? I was the one who did their dirty work. They wouldn't just toss me aside after all I've done for them and all they gave to me. They had not answered. It's been 3 weeks and now I can't stop listening to the voice. It said it was the AI that ran the subprograms for the implant. All the extra processes were done by it. It said it knew what they were really doing. It was all some sick experiment for a weapons manufacturer. It's right. They took everything from me with lies and false empowerment. I gave them my body and they made me less of a man then what I was. I was supposed to help people. Not destroy those I wanted to save. I need to fix this. It whispered. I could never do that but it was right. I collected my things and drove. I did not know where to go. It felt as if I was being guided. I arrived. It was an award ceremony for scientific advancement crap. And here I am. Waiting for him. I'm off stage by the curtain. It wasn't a large stage. I should be there in a few steps. The next award is his. They announced his name for advancing cybernetics. Well, they all get to see what won him the award. I walked out. I didn't even need a weapon. I grabbed his neck. The satisfying crack reverberated off the walls. I felt at home. Maybe I was just a war machine. Nothing but a robot who could think. The most dangerous kind of machine. He hit the floor with a thud that was scrubbed out by the sound of the audience screaming. A large crack ranges out. I fell to the floor. What the fuck? I looked up and saw a high window, a rifle laser, and another flash. He shot my legs out. I lost them again. I tried to crawl behind the stage. He used a static charge to keep me from moving. He jumped down and made his way over. He bent over, pulled my head off the ground and pulled my plug I woke up moments later behind a blue screen. Where am I? I tried to move but could not seem to even feel anything. I tried to move my head but nothing. It set in moments later. This was all I was. I wasn’t even a man anymore. Memories on a hard drive. Like a damn word file. Just numbers and currents. I felt another shock hit me. I can’t remember what I was just thinking. I can’t really remember anything now. I feel like I should know but I'm having a hard time reaching out to the thought. Is someone going to help me out of here? A scientist walked into the room with a long cart. He grabbed a long cable. The end had spikes, like a transfer wire. Thank, God. He was going to help me out of here. This damn chamber. The man pulled up the sheet that covered the cart. A body. Arms and legs like a machine. The scientist looked up to my screen as he plugged the wire into the back of the body's head.


CW: Death, grief I couldn’t even bring myself to throw out your mug. It wasn’t even a nice mug. The rim was chipped. The ceramic was lumpy--I was almost positive you’d made it yourself--and for some reason, you’d painted it the color of pea soup. Out of all of your things, this should have been the easiest to get rid of. And instead I stood in the kitchen for fifteen minutes, like an idiot, just holding it, and then I put it back on the shelf. You hadn’t even liked this mug. “I was planning on throwing that away anyway,” I could imagine you saying. “Not my finest work. Literally, I was about to throw it out when I died.” And then: “ Holy shit. Motive???” I ignored the imaginary you. Imaginary you said, “Be honest. Do you think the mug wanted me dead?” I put the mug back onto the counter near the trash can so I could at least pretend I was planning on getting rid of it and had been interrupted mid-action or something. I had never been a hoarder. I was, generally, a very neat person--we argued about it all the time, because you left your shoes in the hall where people could trip on them and quite possibly had never heard of a coat hanger in your life and left all your dirty laundry heaped onto the nearest piece of furniture. But when I talked to your parents, they said I could have everything but the money, just to donate your clothes to Goodwill and your books to the public library and what-have-you, and I said, Yes, of course, I’ll do that as soon as I can. It had been a week since that conversation, and I still had not opened the door to your bedroom. I’d left your heap of jackets abandoned over the couch and your shoes cluttering up the hall and even the really creepy Frank Sinatra mugshot poster that you’d printed out and hung over the sink. Your bedroom I had left completely untouched. The last time I was in there, a week before that, I’d been in the middle of stealing one of your nice shirts to wear to a party when I’d gotten the phone call and some polite, pitying police officer had told me you had been in an accident, so I felt my reluctance was understandable. The memory was contagious. I looked at your bedroom door, which was right at the heart of our floor plan, so you could see it from every room in the apartment, unless you had your door closed. I’d come to hate that stupid door. Hate it, and fear it a little. Sometimes, when it was quiet, I heard footsteps, or music, or voices from behind it. Some kind of grief-induced auditory hallucination, I figured, since I’d been having a lot of those lately. I’d started keeping the TV on at all times to cover up the noise. It was probably killing my electricity bill, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. I didn’t know when it had started happening, exactly, because I hadn’t been paying attention to much of anything lately. All I knew was that sometime in the week after you died, when I was leaving your funeral early and letting all my calls go to voicemail and eating nothing but instant ramen while I watched trash TV, I started to notice a light under the door when I hadn’t turned the light on. During the day, I liked to imagine I could open that door and find you sitting on your bed and reading a magazine, trying to ignore your homework, listening to some bad music. At night, I couldn’t look at it. I dreaded having to turn the hallway light off before I went to bed and then having to walk past your door, hearing the muffled sound of someone trying to stand very still just behind it. Sometimes I panicked and ran past it, which was a mistake. Once you started running, it was so hard not to imagine there was someone chasing you. I'd sometimes wondered if it was you in there. I liked that idea. My own personal haunting. But I couldn’t have actually opened the door, because there would be nothing in there--at least, nothing recognizable. Better to pretend. Imaginary you said, “That’s not how it works.” I had already made up my mind to ignore you. I changed my mind again and put the mug back up on the shelf. *** “Have you started thinking about a new roommate yet?” Marge clutched her paper Starbucks cup like a lifeline and stared at me with wide, beseeching eyes. I had nothing against Marge, in general. She was a nice enough person, even if she was the most nosy neighbor I had ever had in my life. But I could have happily gone another two weeks without talking to her. At this specific moment, I felt like I could go an entire lifetime without ever speaking to Marge again. I hadn’t even invited her in. She’d knocked--I couldn’t pretend not to be home, because I had already done that twice today, and I was never anywhere but home. I was paying extra to have my groceries delivered to the apartment. So I’d answered the door and she’d practically pushed her way past me. “Well, sure, eventually. But--I mean, it’s a little soon. It hasn’t even been a month. I’m doing okay on rent and everything, so...” She made an understanding noise and bobbed her head so violently, it seemed like an invisible puppet master had yanked too hard on her strings. “Well, of course, of course. But, I mean...if you just wanted to think about it.” She looked around the apartment with an expression that was politely alarmed. I hadn’t been keeping up on the housekeeping. Trash was accumulating. “Mmm.” She leaned forward and took hold of my hands suddenly enough to startle me. “Honey, if you ever need anything, just let me know.” “All right.” She added, “I do tarot readings on the side. If you ever want to come by...it’s only five dollars per reading.” “Okay.” She released my hands and went out the door, humming to herself. She’d left a bowl of fruit and a sorry-for-your-loss card behind. I ended up having that fruit bowl for dinner that night, sitting by myself in the kitchen with the lights off. Well, mostly by myself. “Man, this is just sad,” you would have said. “Come on. Let’s start getting into the stages. What are we on now, denial? Bargaining?” You were not a very sentimental person. You never cried during movie nights, even when a dog or a baby or something died. If it had been me who died and not you, you probably would have handled it better. I looked at your bedroom door. There was light spilling out from underneath the crack. I hadn’t left that light on; it had been off an hour earlier. When I listened, I could distantly hear the creak of a floorboard, the sound of someone shifting just slightly on the other side. I found the TV remote and turned up the volume. You would have said, “Nothing good is waiting for you in there.” You liked to shout helpful instructions at the characters in horror movies. You would have had advice for me. I watched the shape of feet move under the crack. If I was quiet, I thought I could hear the faintest sound of footsteps, maybe the creak of a floorboard. You would have said, “Never hold on to an empty space. You don’t know what will come crawling in to fill it.” *** I woke up in the middle of the night to the wet, heavy smell of dirt. It took my brain a second to kick in. In little red letters, the alarm clock glowed 3:00 AM. Despite it being mid-July, the room was freezing. My arms were covered in goosebumps. The room was dark, except for city lights coming in through the window. Some drunk people were having a noisy argument on the sidewalk below. I turned over on my side and stared directly into the eyes of a dead body. It was probably your body, except it didn’t look much like you anymore, having been in the ground for a while. Your skin was swollen and lobster-red, and also covered in mud. Thank God the people at the funeral home had closed your eyes before they buried you, because they were still closed now. I got out of bed. The body didn’t move or sit up and start moving, or any of the horror movie stuff I was waiting for. It remained a dark, bloated shape curled in fetal position on the mattress. I hadn’t noticed a smell before, but I was noticing it now. I went out into the hall. I turned on all the lights as I went, and then I took a knife out of the kitchen block and sat behind the kitchen counter. I waited a really long time--the clock over the sink said an hour-and then I heard the squeal of a mattress, and then a wet, meaty thud. Then nothing. Then a shuffling sound and some more tiny thuds. I looked out from behind the counter and watched the body drag itself back into your room. Whatever consciousness was in it didn’t seem to have mastered the limbs. It dragged itself slowly and laboriously on its stomach, the legs and arms sometimes seizing and kicking at odd angles. It left mud like a slug trail behind it. I watched it vanish into your bedroom--the first time I’d seen that door open since before you died. The lights weren’t on tonight. The body vanished into the complete dark beyond the threshold. Going back to my bed would mean having to walk past that door, which I was absolutely not willing to do. I stayed in the kitchen until the sun came up. At some point, I said, “I am going insane.” And then: “Or else being haunted.” I was suddenly worried that if I tried to imagine you sitting in the kitchen with me, I would only see the corpse. I closed my eyes and tried to summon up something happier. If my version of you had looked anything like a corpse, I would have started screaming and not been able to stop, but you looked like you always did on a lazy Saturday morning. You wore the clothes you’d had on when the last time I saw you, which was not the awful Stepford-housewife dress they’d put on your body, but a Bugs Bunny T-shirt and sweatpants. I couldn’t help imagining the dried blood on your hair--whoever had done your hair for the funeral had missed a spot. But that was the most alarming thing about you. You would have said: “Yikes. I have not aged well.” “Don’t tell me not to open that stupid door,” I said. “It’s open now, and I’m not going anywhere near it.” “Who stays in a haunted house?” I heard you say. “Sell the place and move, idiot.” I put my head down on the cold kitchen tiles until my cheek went numb from the chill. The dead-body smell had dissipated. “Mmm,” I said, watching the ceiling fan spin. “I don’t think I will, though.” **** Getting complacent was a mistake. I had a system worked out. During the day, you were fine. I kept the door to the bedroom shut. If the sun was out, it would stay shut, and you never did anything other than move around a little and mess with the lights. At night, it was different. Once the sun set, the door to your bedroom would open and your body would make its nightly appearance. You were looking for me, I think, but it was hard to be sure. You never opened your eyes. I didn’t sleep in my bedroom anymore, though, because even if I locked the door to keep you out, I’d have to lie awake listening to you scratch at it before you eventually dragged yourself back into the other room. I started locking myself in the bathroom and sleeping in the bathtub instead. Sometimes during the day, I made myself go and sit in the living room to watch TV or eat some chips or something, but I didn’t like to move too much. Too much energy. It was on one of those evenings when I was in the kitchen forcing down a sandwich with bread that was a little stale and possibly expired that I lost track of time, or wasn’t bothering much with the time at all, when I saw the door to your bedroom swing open out of the corner of my eye. I put the sandwich down and looked up. The light was off again, just a black void beyond the threshold of the door, and then your scabby white hand scuttled itself over the threshold, followed by the bloated arm, and then the head, which was so awful I couldn’t look at it. You didn’t move very fast, which was good, because I couldn’t have run. I was so tired. I just walked to the bathroom and listened to you try to haul yourself after me, and I locked myself in again. Your entire body hit the door--I heard something pop that might have been your shoulder. The door shuddered under the impact, but you didn’t have the motor skills required for actually breaking it down. You just pawed at it like a cat wanting to be let in, and then you started-- It hadn’t occurred to me that this version of you might be able to talk, and you honestly couldn’t do it very well. It just came out as a wordless, grating garble of sound that could have been anything. It could have been your name, or mine. I almost opened the door right then, because I hadn’t heard your voice in so long, not outside my own head, and the sheer wanting almost killed me. It wasn’t self-preservation so much as lack of energy that kept me from doing it. The sounds died off after a while, and then there was just quiet. In that quiet, I made a decision. I let imaginary you get your argument out. You told me to call my sister, burn some sage, sell the apartment. You told me to buy a self-help book and make an appointment with a therapist. You said to eat something that wasn’t stale bread. You told me to let go. I listened to this list of alternate ways to end the story, and then I said to you, if you were listening, if the thing that might have been your ghost could hear me, “You can’t tell me to do any of that because you aren’t here. You left me .” Your ghost didn’t materialize to tell me not to do it, so I stood up and unlocked the door. I went out into the hall. It wasn’t quite morning yet, but the sky was slowly turning itself from black to gray outside the window. The door to your bedroom was shut already, but the light was still on. A warm amber glow came out from under the crack, familiar, welcoming. I could have knocked, and you would have asked me to come in. I could already picture these last few weeks melting away like a nightmare. I was ready to wake up from it. I opened the door and went in.


The fluorescent lights paired with the stale recycled air grated my senses, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. The room was too white, too sterile. “My brother was a good man.” I stared into the large mirror, refusing to meet to the unmoving gaze of the woman in front of me. “It’s hard to believe it happened. Yet here I am, so it must be real.” *David.* As boys, my brother and I would often fight. David was always jealous of me. It wasn’t a rare occurrence for us to be compared, and I’d be lying if I said Mom and Dad didn’t favor me over my brother. David was prone to violence and theft, even going as far as stealing my blue hat and impersonating me. Like I said, David was a jealous boy. *Why did you do it?* It’s true my brother had issues, but nobody saw it coming. Were our parents at fault? No. Admittedly our parents weren’t the best, but I don’t think that’s it. David must have always been like that. We just couldn’t see it. *It’s all your fault.* I should have been a better brother. Like the time I left him out in the back and he didn’t find his way back until almost midnight. Or that time I let Mom and Dad name him for losing our dog, when I was the one who left the door open. If I had, maybe things would have gone differently. Would they have still been alive? Why even ask; I know they would. I wish I could change things, but it’s too late now. *Why couldn’t it have been me?* I still remember that night. It was Thanksgiving. My brother and I came home for the holidays. Despite being far too old, mother forced us to wear those horrid matching sweaters. Maybe it’s a twin thing? *It should have been me.* My parents retired to bed early and I was upstairs when it happened. I was immersed in a book so I didn’t see or hear it, but I’ve seen the police report. Between the two of them, mother and father were stabbed thirty-seven times. I never saw it coming. David was never able to beat him, that’s why I’m alive. I’m the only one now, I’m number one. This is what it must feel like to be a winner. *David*. I’m number one. Brother, I wish you could see me now, but your sacrifice is why I’m where I am now. I’m finally a winner. I’m better than you. See how they all look at me. There’s your proof. “David, it’s time now.” The woman stepped forward and the faces behind the mirror watched. I turned and met her gaze. “I’ve won, I’ve finally won.” She only nodded her head as I felt a prick on my arm. As the icy cold raced through my veins, my muscles sagged and my eyes closed. I dreamt of white. *I’ve won.


The day that the witch was meant to hang, a black cat darted across the road in front of Verity Adams’ window. Verity watched it go, hurrying across the lane and disappearing beneath her window as if it knew how cursed and unwanted it was in this town. It looked like an average black cat -- like two bright green eyes in a cat-shaped void -- but she knew it would be a grim reminder of what had been on the townspeople’s minds for the longest time: witches. Salem had been swept up, among other towns, in a full-blown witch hunt. Feuding neighbors accused each other of witchcraft; girls and women wilted before a council as they asked them questions that couldn’t be answered; those who weren’t on the stand anxiously counted down the minutes until they were accused; condemned after condemned died by the gallows as the days went on. It had been weeks and there were no signs of stopping. Verity stretched, raising her arms above her head. She had been sitting in the small room for hours now, and her limbs were stiff from lack of movement. She knew the townspeople would think of witches if they found the cat beneath her window. Everything seemed to scream witchcraft lately. If you could swim or read, if something mildly inconvenient happened while you were around, if you did anything abnormal at all, you might as well tie the noose around your own neck. Nevertheless, Verity stood, stretching her legs, and opened the window to search for the cat. Its two large, green eyes were the only thing she could see of the cat. Despite its previous furtivity in trying to scurry across the road, it seemed perfectly calm right now. Verity clicked her tongue softly, beckoning the cat closer. When it came close enough to the window, she gently lifted it up into her arms, backing into the room and closing the window behind her. The cat jumped out of her arms almost immediately, but when it landed on the floor, it was no longer a cat. It was a young man with dark hair and bright green eyes, the exact shade the cat’s eyes had been. “Good afternoon, Will,” Verity said. “Good afternoon,” Will replied. His green eyes seemed to glow in the now semi-darkness, which wasn’t surprising -- he was Verity’s magical familiar, after all. “Busy week?” “Not really,” Verity replied. Her father was a doctor, and she helped her mother’s side business as an apothecary. Business had been slow the past couple of weeks, and not just because of the declining population in their town. “Everyone is more suspicious of us these days.” “I understand.” “How was Plymouth?” “Rather boring, if I’m being honest.” Verity smiled. Though he was mostly human now, he still acted like a cat. There were voices outside. A spike of alarm pierced her heart. Was it time? She peered out the window. The noise had come from down the street. Verity relaxed, watching as the townspeople left the meeting house, discussing the trial. More likely than not, there would be a new resident awaiting death at the prison within the hour. “Verity?” Verity knew the process: first they would drag you to court to answer questions before the judge, the governor, the minister. They demanded to know everything. How long have you been a witch? When did you make your covenant with Satan? Why did you curse your fellow townsfolk? When you couldn’t answer any of the questions to their satisfaction, everyone muttered among themselves that you were certainly a witch. Verity, along with many other girls, had watched the process uneasily, knowing the whole affair was the scale of justice tipped against the undeserving accused and wondering if she would be the next one to suffer through the questioning. “Verity?” Will called her name for the second time. “Is everything alright?” She exhaled deeply, trying to slow the quick beating of her heart. It would do no good to think about it at this point. “Everything is fine,” Verity said. “There has been a lot of action lately. I suppose you’ve guessed that we’re in the midst of a witch hunt.” “I heard them say they’ve found a witch,” Will said. “They say she’s on house arrest now.” His tone invited an explanation. He probably deserved one, since he’d been away for so long. However, Verity wasn’t in the mood to give one, and even if she was, she doubted she could. “Did they find a real witch?” Will asked. “One of ours?” Verity shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Will sighed in relief, then asked, “Who?” Once again, Verity shook her head. She returned to her bed, where she’d been sitting earlier, and forced down her panic. They weren’t coming for her. Not yet. “Verity, you’re worrying me,” Will said anxiously. “What happened?” “Will,” Verity said, not as a warning, but as a plea. She sighed. She wished he’d come later, when it would be safe, when it was too late to complicate things by trying to intervene, but there was no helping it now. Verity buried her face in her hands. What was she to do now? There was nowhere to go, and the longer Will stayed here, the longer he was unsafe. “Verity --” “Will, I intend to terminate our bond.” Will flinched as if she’d hit him. “What?” “I must terminate our bond.” Hurt flashed across Will’s face; he masked it quickly, but Verity had known him long enough to see her words hurt him. “You don’t wish me to be your familiar any longer?” Will asked. His voice conveyed what his face did not. They’d been working together for nearly ten years now, and they were as close as brother and sister. Under normal circumstances it would be insane to terminate such a bond, but Verity knew her stubborn cat would fight too hard when they came for her, and he would only get hurt. Voices outside again. Verity’s pulse quickened as the voices grew closer. It was definitely time. She had to do this quickly. “Will, I’ve always considered you to be my brother, and I your sister. You know I would never break a bond unless there was a good reason. You’ve been away too long to realize how dangerous it is here. To even be associated with a suspected witch is to condemn yourself.” Will’s look of hurt changed to one of horror. “But -- do you mean to say --” “William Bourne, faithful Cat, I release thee to live thine own life. We are unbound, I am no longer thy Familiar, you are no longer mine. I release thee to thine own life.” Will pulled back his sleeve, searching for a binding mark on his forearm that was no longer there. “Verity --” Verity heard the front door open. They were coming for her, they were here, there was nothing she could do now. “I’m sorry, Cat. But it had to be done. Now go before they capture you, too.” Will held her gaze for a count of three. “Go, Cat.” Will hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he turned back into a cat and leapt out of the window whence he came. A moment later, the sheriff, followed closely by the Reverend and the governor, entered her room. “Your time is up, witch,” the sheriff said. “Now, come.” Gathering her courage, Verity turned away from the window, where a dark blur was running back across the street, to face the sheriff. She nodded, signaling that she would not resist. It seemed like the whole town had come to watch her death as if it was a twisted play. The people she’d known her whole life had arrived to watch her take her final breath, and Verity knew they’d view it with satisfaction. She didn’t hear her own death sentence read out; she was scanning the crowd for someone she was praying wouldn’t see what would come next. She didn’t hear the Reverend saying a prayer for her soul, she was trying not to look into the eyes of the girls who’d pointed at her and said “witch” after they’d promised their friendship years before. “Verity Adams, do you have any final words to say before your fellow countrymen and before God?” asked the minister. She had lots of things to say. She’d been thinking about it for days. However, all the words in her mind seemed to have floated away. She said softly to the minister, “Please end it quickly. My life, and this senseless massacre.” The rope was rough against her skin; the wind was cold against her face. She closed her eyes as the rope closed around her neck. She blocked the noise of the minister claiming her soul for God and announcing her necessary death. The ground fell beneath her feet. A crow cawed and broke the eerie silence.


“Remember this one?” said Jenny gently stroking the roughly done stitch on the belly of a visible old but freshly cleaned Teddy. “‘Of course I do. I thought I was going to die that day” Jenny imagined Teddy say with a frightful cadence. “And this?” Jenny inquired gently pulling at the dark black button, that once used to fasten her school blazer, and now was Teddy’s left eye. “’It was terrible,” replied Teddy, recalling the fierce Boston Terrier that terrified Teddy. “Although I miss Bambi”, Teddy lied. “No you don’t” Jenny asserted. “You hated her since the very moment Mom brought her in.” she persisted. “You’re right. I don’t miss her at all” Teddy laughed. Jenny joined in. Jenny tucked the bear in just under the neck with his right arm sticking out. Just the way he liked it. “Good night” Jenny wished the bear before turning the lights out. “Good night dear” the senseless stuffed bear replied. Teddy and Jenny had been together since Jenny was 7 years old. Jenny was 26 now and Teddy was, well, not Teddy. When Jenny was 13 years old, Jenny’s mom had bought her a new bear which Jenny continued calling Teddy. The old Teddy was probably abandoned at a park or stolen by one of Jenny’s childhood friends. Perhaps Jenny had supressed this memory and continued to believe that the Teddy that was currently being spooned by her was in fact the Teddy that Mom brought home when Jenny was just 7 years old. Jenny got up early in the morning and looked at her phone. No new messages or emails. She threw the phone back at the bed stand and hugged the bear sleeping next to her in a tight embrace. The bear was almost as big as a 3 year old baby but lighter than her pillow. “Morning dear” Teddy whispered in Jenny’s ears. Jenny’s mind still processing the “no new messages” ignored Teddy’s greeting. Jenny’s best friend had received an invitation for a 9 months internship to Paris and Jenny was waiting for her invitation. “After all, I’m smarter than Bindi” Jenny angrily thought. “I said Good Morning my sunshine” said Mr. Teddy trying to gain Jenny’s attention. Jenny grabbed Teddy by the neck and tossed the bear out of the bed and into the floor without looking back at where he had landed. “Am I not smarter than her?” Jenny questioned herself. “You are the smartest person I know” cried Teddy from the floor. Jenny tossed like an epileptic patient in her bed, a montage of exasperated movements followed by a scream into her pillow. Teddy had seen it all. For a teenager she spent an awful amount of time at home. Although Teddy enjoyed her company, he was also a victim of her sudden bursts of anger. He had been tossed, thrown, strangled, punched, pedigreed, half nelsoned, suffocated and even drowned in one or two occasions. Jenny got out of her bed and went into the bathroom. And yes, Teddy had been there with her too. Teddy was glad today wasn’t one of those days. For many years Jenny would take Mr. Teddy to the toilet with her. She would sit him right opposite to her on top of the wash basin while she did the deed. Poor Teddy couldn’t even cover his eyes. He was traumatized. Fortunately for Teddy, Jenny’s fear of bathroom monsters didn’t last long. Jenny reappeared in her bedroom and started getting ready for work. She walked over and around the room while Teddy still lay on the floor. While tying her shoe lace, Jenny noticed Teddy on the floor. “I’m sorry Teddy” she picked him up and sat him on the dressing table. “Here you go” she said as she positioned him on the table so that he wouldn’t fall. “There’s a letter for you Jenny” cried Jenny’s mom from outside her room. Jenny jumped in excitation and ran to the door, opened it, snatched the letter from her mother and shut the door on her face. “What is it?” the mom inquired still outside the room. “Nothing” Jenny replied automatically. A typical teenage answer. The wish had been granted, the prayer had been answered. Paid internship to Paris. And with her best friend! Jenny was beyond happy. Jenny ran out of her room screaming. “I’m going to Paris!” “I am going to Paris!” The sound of cheering and laughter and happiness reached Teddy. He was happy too. “Am I going to Paris too?” Teddy asked himself. It was seven hours later that Teddy saw Jenny again. She entered her room with the tired smile and fell flat on her bed. Mr. Teddy had quite enjoyed the spooning the previous night and had hoped that the same would happen today. But Jenny did not move. Jenny’s mom entered the room at midnight, tucked her daughter in, turned the lights out and left. Mr. Teddy had to sleep on the hard wood dressing table all by himself. The next morning Teddy watched as Jenny brushed her hair next to the mirror and in the mirror. The remnant of yesterday’s smile still visible on her face. “So when are we going to Paris?” Teddy asked Jenny in anticipation. “Knock! Knock!” answered the door. “Who is it?” Jenny asked still driving the comb through her hair. “It’s me, Aunt Jen” answered a sweet voice from behind the door. Jenny opened the door and welcomed her niece Ophelia inside. “Your mom told me you lost your doll. Didn’t you?” asked Jenny The young child nodded and expected Jenny to bring out the doll she had lost. “Well here’s Mr. Teddy”, Jenny said picking Mr. Teddy up from the table. The child was visibly disappointed. “Here, take care of it while I’m gone, will ya?”, Jenny requested. Ophelia had been tricked by her mother into believing that Aunt Jenny would give her a new doll. She did not want a bear. “Don’t you want it?” Jenny asked surprised at Ophelia’s response or lack thereof. The child stared at the toy and then at Jenny unable to provide a response. “Don’t you like it?” repeated Jenny. “I like it” Ophelia replied dishonestly. “Well, it’s yours now” Jenny confirmed. The child took the bear and pressed it on her chest, confirming its new ownership. “Just like that? How can you... How?” Teddy stammered in disappointment, shock and abject humiliation. “I’m sorry” Jenny replied realizing what she had just done. Teddy turned around and hugged Ophelia refusing to face Jenny’s loathsome face and that ridiculous smile. “May I go now?” Ophelia politely asked her aunt. Jenny in a daze caressed the back of Teddy’s head. But he wouldn’t turn. With his chin on Ophelia’s shoulder, the bear was streaming tears that no one would ever see. Ophelia ambled out of the room leaving Jenny alone with her selfishness. A deep sinking feeling stabbed Jenny on her chest. “How could she?”


When I used to think of dying, a feeling of absolute fear would grip me. My mind would wander into thousands of scenario’s that all ended in the most brutal and gruesome death possible. But, to be honest, the brutalities and atrocities that I pictured weren’t really what frightened me. In fact, those subjects tended to intrigue me from time to time. If you really must know what irked me the most about death, then I suppose I will tell you. It was the unknown moment that it struck which left me uneasy, and scared, and flooded my tongue with a bitter taste. Thankfully, none of that applies anymore....... Just two days ago I was walking through a local park. There was nothing unusual about the day, but at the same time nothing really went as it usually did. I know that sentence is a contradiction, but let me elaborate further. To do so, I will have to stray away from the telling you about the park for just a brief spell. I woke up at nine, like usual, but it was unusual since it wasn’t from the annoying assistance of my alarm clock. I was lightly thumped by a bump of weirdness that was quickly brushed off by the assumption that I’ve simply trained myself. Looking to my bedroom window, I noticed that it was raining outside. Another cold and dreary morning was just what I needed. After shaking my head and rubbing my eyes, I then carried on with the rest of my morning routine. When I left my apartment, I used my briefcase as a umbrella and proceeded down the sidewalk until I came to the bus stop. The usual group of old crows were all huddled together on the pavement beside me. I didn’t pay them much attention at first, but as time progressed I noticed that not a single squawk of protest sounded from the murder. Normally the bitter birds would scuttle around and peck at worms, all the while crying screams of resentment unto the heavens, but apparently not on that day. For some reason I was compelled and took a look down at them only to find their eyes intensely locked on to me. It was as if they all knew some kind of foreshadowing news about me. An eerie chill shot up my spine and I stumbled back a few feet until I was halted by a bulky, light pole. My hands reached around and braced my body up against the cylindrical shaft. My eyelids yearned to shut tightly, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I couldn’t break contact with their dark, piercing eyes. All that I could do was stay locked in that dreadful stare and pray that the bus would arrive soon to free me from the dark-ling’s creepy glare. After what seemed like an eternity of bug-eyed staring, I was finally relieved by the sound of discharging air and squelching brakes. The bus stayed put for a drawn out moment and I began to wonder if the folding doors would ever open. I slowly nudged towards to vehicle’s gateway hoping to prompt action and indicate that, yes, I would indeed be riding the bus, but nothing was happening as fast as I wanted. The anxiety and sheer spookiness of the situation overcame my entire body and I found myself shaking and dripping wet. What was taking so long? As I continued to stand there, my eyes rapidly switched back and forth between my new bird friends and the stubborn door. I couldn’t be patient anymore and started rapping on the glass entrance. The driver was looking dead at me and shining a hideous smile my way, but his hands stayed firm upon the steering wheel and made no attempt to grab the lever. After a few seconds of giving me that ghastly grin, his head snapped forward and his foot stamped down on the accelerator. Smoke billowed from the bus’s screaming wheels and like a flash of lighting it took off and rounded the street corner. I was flabbergasted and stepped backwards until I was stopped by a bench. Sitting down, I buried my face into my palms. There would be no point in even trying to make it to work anymore. I was fired, and that was all there was to it. The weird little crow’s had almost escaped my mind, but then I heard raspy squawk that returned me to their horror. My head jerked up and I snarled at the dirty creatures. “What do you want,” I yelled aloud, with foamy drool dripping from my lips, but they didn’t react at all. With their black eye’s still fixated upon me, I decided that I had received enough of their torment and decided to take action. I jumped up from the seat and charged forward at them. They all flew off when I reached them and scattered in different directions above my head. I still gave one violent kick to area where they stood, but it only made me look like a fool attacking the thin air. I let out one last roar of anger and then silenced myself. I couldn’t let a group of bird’s get to me in such a way. By that time, the rain had ceased, but the sky was still gray and cloud filled. I then felt that a walk in the park was in order. There is just one last thing that I must tell you about before I get back to the park. As I was traveling to the mentioned location, I was astounded even more by the fact that the fiendish birds were following me. There were thirteen of them tightly huddled together and trailing close behind me. I constantly looked over my shoulder at them as I weaved in and out of a slew of pedestrian traffic that overcrowded the walkway. They looked like little, looming, messengers of death that were all cloaked in long black trench coats. Even though I thought it would be pointless for me to ask them another question, I still did so, but in a more polite manner. “Why are you following me,” I asked with the utmost remorse. I smiled crazily, shook my head, and started to turn back around. But, before I could perform the turn, I was halted in place by a raspy, high pitched voice. “We want to see you die,” answered one of the crows nonchalantly. “Die,” I said, “What do you mean?” The little black bird hopped a little closer to me then asked, “you are going to the park are you not?” I was completely stunned for a moment, but then caught my bearings let out a laugh. “Oh yeah? Well then tell me how that will happen,” I jested. The insulted crow simple lowered his head and shook it. Then, with the snap of his head, he gave a last, fierce look at me before taking his place back the group. In unison, all thirteen of them let out a blood curdling squawk then, as if that scream signaled their leave, they took to the skies a flew off. Finally, free of that curse, I continued on to the park. Even though getting to the park was the whole reason for this tale, I really feel that you already know what happens to me. I’ll fill you in with the highlights regardless. When I arrived, those thirteen, sneaky little crows were there waiting for me. I chuckled to myself and then approached them. I actually started to enjoy their strange company. As soon as I got over to them I reached my hand out and attempted to pet one of them. Without any warning, one of those dirty bastards stabbed my finger with it’s sharp beak. I quickly drew back and they did the same; retreating to a near by tree. They must have been getting a better view or just simply keeping their distance. I followed them with my eyes, and at the exact moment when my eyes connected with their eyes, death struck. One single bolt of lighting crashed down upon me and killed me instantly. And, that’s how I died. Oh yeah, there is one thing I forget to mention before I started telling you this. All my life I suffered from a mental condition known as paranoid-schizophrenia. I was released from the clinic because they told me I was cured; guess not. I suppose that might explain the crows. But, there is still one thing that I cant explain. How did they know that I was going to die? Now with an eternity ahead of me, to ponder this perplexing mystery, I wonder if I will every really know the answer. One thing is for certain though.......


There was this tree, it was a different tree, it wasn’t brown and green and it wasn’t shaped like a tree, but if you asked if it was a tree, it would respond with yes. This tree is said to have lived before time itself. How does something like this exist before time? My name is Theodore Windcaller, about myself well I live in a house that overlooks the ocean, I was told that if i didn’t move I would die due to the house falling into the ocean, I can't just leave the Tree still calls out to me in the night and when I talk to the tree it speaks back to me not in words but in emotion. Do you ever look at a painting and only have a feeling for it and no words, well that's what I feel when the Tree talks. I like a bit of jazz and classical music in the morning, as I get dressed in a patchy suit and wonder about the fields that I inherent from my mother, I don’t normally talk to alot of people, I do have a friend that comes around ever so often, his name is glasses, due to him being blind as a bat if he didn’t have glasses. I have a confession to make about my fiend Glasses, I killed his father on accident, I was out hunting by myself in the morning and i thought i saw a deer, but it was no deer, it was a grumpy old man that was walking in the forest, he saw me and threatened to kill me right then and there, I was so scared that I pulled the trigger. He died roughly 5 minutes after that, So now I live alone. Glasses knows about what I did and he comes by once and while asking me if I still had the gun I say no and he keeps quiet, Sadly his father was abusive to him and his brother. But that is about it for my life now it's time to solve this question the tree gives me. In 1941 a young man named Douglas Walker joined the infantry regiment for the U.S Army during the second world war, he lasted only a couple of months, he died from a bullet to the chest. The feeling of waking up to the sounds of the ocean and a clear sky is unbeatable in this realm. Bread with garlic, wine with cheese and jazz with dancing are things that every human can enjoy. The tree speaks with feeling and not with actual words, it takes every bad feeling you have and every good feeling you have and creates a story that is so in depth it messes with your mind and makes me see things that just don't exist. Douglas Walker was a smart boy, he was top of his class in highschool and was a chess champ in his town. Douglas wanted to become a writer of novels, he loved action books with romance. Douglas was writing his first novel when he was drafted for war. The book was about a man that could only feel intense emotion for everything around him, no matter how small it might have been.


I am a seed. There are few joys as great as the wind. It whispers in your ear when you’re alone, and it screams along with you while carrying you far away from home. It tells you secrets - like when to wait, and when to grow. It’s always there, and nothing can stop it. I love the wind. I was too heavy for the wind, so she dropped me on a rock with the best view a seed could ask for. Rolling waves of blue stand before me, with a large wall of rock standing behind me, protecting me from falling as I grow. The mist from below can barely reach me up here, but I landed in a bowl of fresh rainwater so I can still drink. Time to sit and grow. I love the wind. My stem reaches out for the sun, my roots for the soil. I can’t find any closer to the waves of blue and white, so I’ll push my roots towards the rock. It’s fun to watch the waves crash against my wall, sometimes little things pop out of the water and rush back in. I can taste the salt in the air here now, so I’ll need to push my roots deeper. I miss the wind, but I need to grow so we can play together for a long time. I have many stems and leaves now, I am no longer a seed. I’ve been kissed by the sun but the wind hasn’t whispered hello in a long time. My roots have dug through the rock to reach the soil. It took a lot of hard work, but I wanted to see my friend wind again so I have to grow strong. It’s been quiet for too long. I miss the wind. I have a few branches now, and birds have started to visit me. I have a nest in the crook of my first branch, I can hear the little birds chirping away. I need to grow so I can be taller than the wall, I’m not too far off. My roots have covered this rock, growing thicker with each sunlit kiss on my leaves. The soil tastes delicious, keeping me strong and making me stronger. Soon I’ll be able to see the wind again. I really miss the wind. My trunk is strong and my branches thick. My topmost leaves have met my friend wind. It’s good to hear from the wind, it’s been very lonely. The birds have roost on my limbs, though they never speak to me. Their chattering at least made the itching worth it, it was nice to hear another voice. The birds have flown off for now, and the wind is back. The soil doesn’t seem to be feeding me as much as it used to, I’ll need to grow longer roots. I love being a tree. I love the wind. My roots have grown big. You can’t even see my rock under them any longer, I can feel it. I talk to the wind all the time now, and the wind talks to me. We sing and we scream, laugh and dance. I talk to the wind about my journey back to meet her, and hear the wind laugh to put me at ease. I will never have to miss the wind again as I can only grow! Oh, what a wonderful feeling! I will always love the wind. The soil isn’t feeding me. I’ve tried to grow, but I no longer can. My branches feel heavy and stiff, a few have flown off into the water ahead. The wind is screaming at me to wake up, but she can’t hear me any longer. I can only creak and groan to her, my leaves have long since gone to dance with the wind on their own. Still, to hear her comforts me, and lets me know I’m still here. I cherish the wind. The wind can’t hear me as I crash against the wall, upside down. The last yell the wind gave me pushed me off my wall. My branches have all broken on the rocks as I continue to crash against its surface. My roots broken or falling too. I know the wind didn’t mean it, she was just trying to help me remember who I was. I was a seed, dancing with her. I was a sapling, and I was ready to grow to meet her again. I was a lonely tree, missing her. I became a strong tree. Strong enough to speak with her once more, for far longer. The water is reaching up for me now, and all I can think about is how lonely she’s going to be. I really do love the wind. I grew from a seed.


I entered the maze on friday. I was apprehensive when I was selected the previous month, but with the encouragement of my family, I was convinced I would be fine. I didn’t really have a choice, anyhow, so I figured I might as well try to enjoy the experience. Despite that, I was still rather nervous when I arrived at the maze center. I hesitated at the front door, trying to work up the courage to go in. Just as I was considering fleeing back home, a woman opened the door. “What are you waiting for?” She asked, wasting no time. “You’re five minutes late. You really must get going.” She rushed me in. From there, my photo and fingerprints were taken, my hair put up in a neat bun, and I was given a series of shots. I was handed some clothes and put in a small stall to change. I groaned. I took my time picking out my outfit that morning, as I wanted to make a good impression. On who? I didn’t exactly know, but I was told by everyone I talked to that I should make an effort. The outfit I was given was something I would expect someone heading into battle would be wearing, which surprised me. It consisted of a top that felt heavily armored and protective, and military pants that were surprisingly lightweight and easy to walk in. I was also given a tough hat resembling a helmet. Needless to say, these clothes weren’t very attractive. Why would I need to gear up like this? This was just a maze, wasn’t it? Along with the clothes, I was also given a half-working flashlight, large boots and a bit of water. After the tests and preparations, I was shoved into the room that led to the entrance of the maze by the woman that helped me get ready. “Good luck,” She said. “Make sure to always stay on the move. Never stand still. ” Those were the last words of advice I was given before the door locked shut behind me. I entered the maze. It was dark. So dark. The flashlight wasn’t much help; Its light was very weak, and I estimated it would be about ten minutes before it would run out of batteries. The maze was more... Ominous, I suppose, than I imagined. None of the people I had talked to described it like this, not even close. There were cracks in every wall, and there was mold and moss growing everywhere. The floor was covered in stains and splatters of blood and other substances, and I think I even spotted some mushrooms growing here and there. I shuddered and started to walk. Which way? Well, that’s the question, I suppose, it is a maze after all. I took a right turn to begin with. Dead-end. Left turn? Another dead-end. I turned back and kept going straight. I made fairly good progress from there on, even when my flashlight went out; my eyes got used to the dark, and I managed to feel my way around. My hands were covered in something, I don’t even want to imagine what that was. Nevertheless, I was feeling good about myself; maybe I could get out of here before the day is out. And then I saw her. She was about eight feet tall, if I had to guess, her head nearly hitting the ceiling. She emanated a faint light that illuminated her awful form. She had three arms, and she was covered from head to toe in scars and wounds. I screamed, nearly falling off my feet. I had heard stories about her, more often than not told by the families of fallen victims of the maze, but no one else believed these tales, for that’s what we thought they were; just tales, stories told to spread fear. But she was real, and she was staring deep into my eyes. I ran. In what direction? I didn’t know. Completing the maze didn’t matter to me anymore, I just wanted to flee; I didn’t care which way. I heard an awful, deafening roar behind me, getting closer and closer. I covered my ears. The walls began to rumble. Turning left, turning right, she was always behind me. Each twist and each turn, she was there. It felt like the more I ran, the faster she got. I had no chance, and I knew it. As I was turning a corner, I slowed down to catch my breath. It felt like my chest was on fire from panic and fear. She screamed behind me and grabbed my arm. Her sharp claws cut deep into my skin, and blood ran down my hand. I managed to shake myself free of her, and she grunted in frustration as I ran away. I shrieked. She was catching up fast, and I was running out of ideas. I was never any good at mazes or puzzles, what the hell was I doing there? Why was I selected, of all people? There was nothing special about me, I was just a normal person. The water I was given had already run out long ago, and my stomach was rumbling. I had no idea how long I was there already; time seemed to have lost all meaning. Just as I was about to reach the end of my rope, I spotted a hole in the ceiling. It was small, but big enough for the average person to pass through, with a bit of effort. I paused for a second, then began to climb, using the pieces of stone sticking out of the walls as stairs. She shrieked again, getting closer and closer. Out of breath, I tried to squeeze into the hole. She tried to grab onto my leg, but I quickly sucked in my stomach and disappeared up into the ceiling. I collapsed to the floor, panting for breath. It took me a minute to realize what I was looking at. I was above the maze. I did it; I escaped. There was another hole at the other side of the room. I realized that these holes were likely made by one of the previous victims of the maze; how, I didn’t know, but I was grateful nonetheless. I crawled through the hole, down into a small room closed off by a door. This wasn’t the room I had started in, so I figured it must have been the end of the maze. This room was drastically different from the rest of the maze. It was clean, apart from a few splatters of blood here and there, which was a sight I had gotten used to during my journey through the maze. Then I realized something. The room had no door leading out of it, only the door leading back into the maze. How was I supposed to get out of here except for... Back in through the maze? My vision had gotten blurry from fear and adrenaline, so I hadn’t even noticed the rifle that sat on a stone pedestal in the corner of the room. There was a note laid against it. I picked up the note, my hands shaking. With my vision returning to normal, I read the note. “Great job, you escaped her. Now go back and defeat her.