The following writings were found in Cabin 3-D on the Mt. Baker hiking trail. To whomever finds this, My name is Trenton Briggs, it’s January 4th, 1992, and by the time you read this, I will be dead. I’m writing this to document my experiences over the past day. Please don’t let my mother read this, as I don’t wish to subject her to the horrors of reading her child’s final moments. It was January 2nd when a group of friends and I decided to take the fateful hike up Mt. Baker. We’d heard from a couple work colleagues that it was the best hike in the state. Second to none, nothing like it. A life-changing experience. So we thought, fuck it. We’re young, healthy, a full life ahead of us. We strapped on our boots, threw on our jackets, met up at my place, and headed out towards the mountain. It was cold that day. The sky was clear and blue, but the sun did nothing to heat the frigid air. It cut through my jacket, tore through the layers of shirts, and stabbed deep into my skin, but the excitement for the journey warmed my spirit. As we stood at the base of the mountain, I looked up to try and see the peak of the intimidating summit. Instead, I saw nothing but monstrous mounds of snow. It was more than I had anticipated. Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement. It was the most snow I’d seen in my life. As I stared at it, I imagined my foot slipping and ungodly waves of the white powder coming down at incredible speeds, smashing into my legs, pulling me into it’s depths, and wiping away any trace of me. For a moment, I almost said something. I almost turned around and suggested coming back another day. Perhaps a warmer day, when some of the snow had a chance to melt. I was so fucking close. But, when I turned around, I saw her. Or you, if you ended up finding a way out. She was in a separate group, but we were on the same hike. She was beautiful. Her face was mostly covered by her red and teal ski jacket, but her dark brown curls protruded out onto her brown forehead. She stared up the mountain, her knees shaking with excitement. Or the cold, but I like to think it was excitement. She glided through both my and her group to get to the front of us all. She had an aura that soothed the fear in my heart, replacing the thoughts of snow with the promise of summiting. Her friends joined her at the front, and began their trek through the trees. My group, not wanting to be last, quickly followed behind them. And that was that, the journey had begun. The first hour of the hike was nothing exceptional. We crossed a couple bridges, stopped to snap pictures of waterfalls, and walked just a couple of steps behind her group. She led her group, so I guess she led mine as well. She didn’t ever stop to admire the scenery. It seemed all she was interested in was the summit. The few rests she did take were only on the top of smaller peaks, and to look at the summit. As the sun began to set, the exhaustion must have overtaken her ambition, as both of our groups stopped to catch our breaths. I decided now was as good a time as ever to introduce myself. I walked up to her, gasping for breath, and was as smooth as possible. “Sup,” I said. She looked me up and down, confused by my attempt at casual conversation. “Hey,” she said through the collar of her jacket. Her friends giggled at my awkwardness. “How are you enjoying the hike? Pretty brutal right?” I said, trying desperately to find something to talk about. “It’s not too bad, have you hiked it before?” She asked. “No, first time,” I said. “Oh, I kind of figured from your breathing,” she laughed. “But you talk like you’ve done it before.” “Yeah, no, I’m not much of an outdoors man, but I saw from the way you were leading that this seems to be your kind of thing.” “No, not really, just seemed like a good time, and why waste it lagging in the back. That seems to be your kind of thing,” she laughed again. “But if we want to make it to that cabin before dark, we better get a move on. Hopefully I see you up there, and not laying dead in the snow somewhere.” “For sure,” I said, turning back towards my group. My friends nudged my arms and joked at my awkwardness. But I didn’t mind. We rested for a little while longer, then pulled ourselves to our feet to return to the hike. We walked as the sun slowly disappeared behind the summit, getting to a cabin marked 3-D as night finally fell. I rushed to the front to open the door for everyone. “Glad to see you made it,” she said as she walked through the door, kicking her boots off and sitting on the bed nearest the sole window. My friends shook their heads and followed in. We all sat within our groups on opposite sides of the cabin, everyone shedding their coats as one of the guys from her group lit the fireplace against the wall. It was a cozy little place. All wood, snowshoes decorating the chimney, 6 beds lining the walls, and a long table separating the two groups. We sat in this segregated fashion for a while, until someone found a deck of cards in one of the nightstands next to a bed. They suggested a friendly game of poker, so we all rose out of bed and congregated at the table. I sat kiddy corner from her, as the guy who lit the fireplace dealt the cards from next to her. We played for a while, I lost more times than I care to admit, but during the game conversation between the groups began. In her group, there was Alex: the guy who lit the fireplace, Bridgette, Thomas, and her, Mable. For clarity’s sake I should say that my group consisted of myself, my buddy Donnie, his girlfriend Amy, and my other buddy Greg. Her group was a kaleidoscope of people. Bridgette was a soft-spoken girl. She was Korean, and they had met in an art class. After that the two of them became inseparable. She didn’t talk much, except to Mable. Thomas, Bridgette’s boyfriend, was a meek looking guy. Much like Bridgette, he hardly spoke, but was killing us all in the game. He was studying to become a radiation therapist, and had met Bridgette during their schools yearly culture day, where he was representing Ethiopia. I liked him. When he did talk he was funny. Cracking jokes on both his and my group. Then there was Alex. At first, I didn’t like him, if only because he sat next to Mable. But further conversation revealed that he was gay, which was a relief. After that, he ended up being really cool. He led most of the conversations, joking with everyone, not acknowledging his losses in almost every game we played. And finally, there was Mable. The brief conversation we had on the hillside did little to prepare me for the personality she held in her small brown frame. She was an artist, an adventurist, a politician in training, and a free-thinker, on top of a list of other self-proclaimed titles. But more than anything, she was a talker. Anytime someone spoke, she chimed in. She didn’t bulldoze them, she just had something to say about everything. It was kind of amazing. How can one person have so much to add? Regardless, I liked listening to her talk. Her voice was soft, but held a certain warm power. It’s hard to describe in words. It just felt as though everything she said was meant to be listened to. I liked everyone else, but I truly only wanted to listen to her. “So what about you Trenton? What do you do?” Mable asked me. “I’m a writer,” I said. “Ooo, what kind of stuff do you write? Is it smut? I won’t judge,” she asked. “No, not really. I kind of write anything. Any story that feels worth telling ya know,” I replied. “Yeah, I like that. Well, I hope this can be a story worth telling, ya know,” she laughed. After we had all lost mounds of imaginary money to Thomas, we decided to call it a night and go to sleep. As I laid in my bed, I closed my eyes and thought about the summit. I was excited. Not to see the curvature of the earth below me. But, to see Mable up there. Looking down, the sun reflecting off of her bouncy curls. That was my motivation. And it was all I needed. We woke the next day to see a fresh layer of snow had piled in front of the door. With some force we managed to push it up, and continue our journey. Our groups walked together this time. I struggled to keep pace with Mable, but I kicked through the snow as hard as I could to be by her. We didn’t make it very far before we realized how much harder it was going to be, walking at this elevation through such a thick layer of snow. We stopped after less than 5 minutes had passed and sat down. The snow was loose. Too loose to keep going. But, Donnie didn’t want to stop. He made fun of us for sitting, said we were wasting too much time. I told him that it was best to wait a bit, get our bearings and continue on. Mable told him that there was no rush, we had all day to make it up, but he wouldn’t stand for it. He walked over to Greg and pulled on his arm to stand up. When Greg said no, Donnie yanked on him, pulling him up to his feet. Greg was understandably irritated with Donnie’s refusal to listen, and told him to knock it off. Donnie, unable to understand when enough was enough, grabbed his jacket and tried pulling him up the mountain behind him. Greg shoved Donnie in the back, causing him to fall face-first into the fresh snow. Donnie got up and shoved Greg back. The two continued to shove each other back and forth, until Donnie punched Greg in the face and the two began wrestling. The commotion of the two cause snow to fly up from their feet, and their yells echoed against the surrounding rocks. Alex and I both got up to separate the two, but I lost my footing and fell hard. It took me a second to find my bearings and get back up, but when I did, I heard Bridgette's voice. It was a soft, shaky, whimper almost. “Guys, look,” she said. I turned my head towards the summit and saw something glide across the snow. “Guys, stop! Look,” Amy’s voice was more panicked than Bridgette’s, Donnie and Greg to brought their fight to a halt to join me looking up at the peak. A tsunami of enormous waves of white powder were rushing down the mountain side, quickly growing and multiplying as they picked up more and more snow. I was frozen. The image of the snow crashing into me and wrapping me in its wave jolted back into my brain. I heard Donnie and Greg get up and run back down the mountain, screaming for help, but I couldn’t move. I thought about my body falling backwards, the force of the wave crushing my spine as it threw me into the ground, my legs flying above my head, before whipping them back down again. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I thought of the snow clogging my throat, suffocating me under the cold, wet, blanket. Until I felt her grab my hand. I looked from the summit and saw Mable. She was scared, but not for herself. “Come on! We have to go,” she pleaded, pulling my arm towards her. The feeling in my legs returned, and we ran down the hill. I could hear the snow catching up to us. It tumbled and hit the ground, showering snow behind me. It kept growing louder and louder. I looked back, and the wave towered above us, casting a massive shadow on the ground. Then I heard it. Bridgette squeaked when she hit the ground. Thomas stopped and turned around, running back up the mountain after her. Mable stopped to check on them, but I overtook her and kept running. I couldn’t stop. One after another, the members of each group tripped, slipped, slowed, and fell. Ice-cold tears filled my eyes, and Mable screamed behind me. But I couldn’t stop. The cabin came into view as my feet pounded against the snow. I was waiting. Waiting for the snow to slip out from under me, waiting to feel the weight of Mable’s fallen body pull me down, waiting for the snow to crash into my legs. It felt like a dream. I just kept running as the sounds of each of my friends faded from my ears. I just ran. And ran. And ran. Until we were at the door. I ripped the door open, and pulled Mable in as hard as I could before slamming it shut behind her. She collapsed to the ground as the wave smashed into the side of the cabin, completely blocking out the light from outside. A black blanket replaced the sun as the snow showered feet above the ceiling. “What the fuck!” She screamed, wailing into her lap. I panted and gasped for breath, as I fell to the floor by the door. “Why didn’t you stop! Why did you leave them! What the fuck is wrong with you!?” She screamed at me. She stood up and started hitting me, but I didn’t try to defend myself. “What’s wrong with you, you fucking psycho!? I hate you!” “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I still don’t know why I didn’t stop. Perhaps I knew it was pointless. Or maybe, I’m just a coward. I don’t know. She cried for a long time, and I was forced to listen to it all. It broke my heart. Her soft sobs were the only noise in the cabin. “It’s not your fault,” she finally said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I know that.” I didn’t say anything back. Would could I say? “I’m sorry for yelling at you like it was.” “It’s okay,” I said. “And I’m sorry for hitting you,” she said. “It’s okay.” We sat in silence for a while. I can’t say how long, since I haven’t seen the outside to tell time since we got in here. All I know is it was long enough for me to get off the floor and sit on the bed. “So now what do we do?” she asked. I looked at her, and she was scared. Her eyes were wide, and she stared at me, hoping I’d be able to tell her something to make her feel better. But all I said was, “I don’t know.” “Well there has to be something we can do! A radio or something we can use to call for help!” She jumped up and began rummaging through drawer after drawer, desperately looking for a beacon of hope. She pulled the drawers out, and dumped their contents on the floor, hoping for something. But there was nothing. “Help me look!” she yelled at me. I got up and joined in her search, lifting mattresses, opening cupboards, looking in chests. But there was nothing. “No there has to be something! There has to be!” she yelled out. She continued to tear through all the contents of the cabin, before throwing a drawer on the ground in frustration and dropping onto a bed opposite of me. “I’m sorry,” I said. She cried as she crawled under the blankets. The room was incredibly cold. My teeth clattered violently in my mouth, making them feel like they were going to fall out. I walked over to the fireplace, loaded it with tinder, and struck a match to light it. The fire blossomed to life and I sat in front of it. After a while, Mable shuffled over, wrapped in her blankets and plopped onto the floor beside me. We sat in front of the fire, trying to get warm, until we heard a sizzling coming from above the flames. We both saw the first drop of water roll down the back of the chimney before a mound of wet slush dropped onto the pile of wood, snuffing the life out of the fire. I stared at the dark fireplace, unable to react to our promise of doom. She stared, too. Probably because her tears had frozen in her cheeks and could no longer squeeze out of her eyes. She shivered more violently than before, so I grabbed all the loose blankets off the beds and wrapped them around her. “What about you?” She asked. “It’s alright,” I said. “No, it’s not,” she said. “Come here.” She lifted the blankets enough for me to squeeze next to her, and I wrapped it around myself. We sat there, staring at the soaked wood that was once our fire. She leaned her head against my shoulder, her pillow of curls pressed against my cheek. It was nice. Well, all things considered. The temperature in the room continued to drop as time rolled on, and my stomach began to growl. I ignored it for the most part. But it kept growling, louder and louder. When I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer she said, “I’m hungry.” “Me too.” I stood up to look through the mess of useless items on the floor. The only thing that could constitute as food was a lone can of vegetable stew. I returned to Mable to relay the good news. We sat at the table and opened the can, picking at the cold chunks of celery and carrots. “Mmm, gourmet,” she said. “Only the best,” I replied. She laughed for the first time in forever and looked up at me. “I hope we’re not here for long. I can’t be stuck with a dork like you forever,” she said. “You know what, I was just thinking the same thing,” I replied. “Whatever,” she laughed. We ate the rest of the soup, and returned to our beds. I shivered without a blanket, and she shivered with all of them. “You know,” I said, sitting up in the bed. “It would probably be less miserably cold if we huddled together under those blankets.” “Yeah, maybe,” she said. “Yeah,” I said. I laid back down, tucking my hands between my thighs to try and preserve the little heat left in them. “Fine, come over here,” she said. Normally, I’m not one to rush into someone’s bed at a reluctant offer, but this was an exception. I leaped out of my bed and crawled into hers, our bodies finally experiencing an extended period of warmth for the first time all day. We laid face to face, for the most part. It was more face, to hair. My arms wrapped around her puffy jacket, and I held her close to my body. Her shivering eased, but never truly went away. I closed my eyes, and began to doze off. Until a noise shot me awake. It was a sharp, faint noise, but unmistakable. I looked towards the lone window, facing the summit. A long crack had started from the top of the window, and was about halfway down it. “What was that?” She asked. “Nothing,” I said. “No I heard that, it wasn’t nothing.” She pushed herself from me and looked up to see the crack. “Please tell me that was there before.” The wood groaned under the pressure of the snow, and the crack grew slightly longer. She jumped out of the bed and ran to the window, tracing her finger against the crack. “It’s all the way inside,” she said. Her voice was tired. The bubbly warmness of it had chilled into a cold acceptance. “It’s okay, we’re going to be okay.” “No. I don’t think so,” she said, still staring at the crack. She looked at me, and this time, it was me that was crying. I’d run so fast from my friends, and for what? I abandoned all of them, only to end up here. Waiting for the crack to cover the window, and be swallowed by the same wave that had swallowed them. I guess I deserve it. She walked back over to the bed, crawled back under the covers, and looked at me. “It’s okay,” she said, placing a frozen hand on my cheek. “It’s okay.” And I cried. And cried. I cried until my throat burned, and my eyes had completely dried. Even then, I still cried. And all she said was, “It’s okay.” We both fell asleep there, holding each other. I woke up some time later to the groan of the cabin. Mable was still asleep, so I slowly slipped out of the bed and walked over to the window. The crack had grown and splintered tremendously during the time we had slept. I knew it wouldn’t hold up much longer, so I walked over to my bed, and retrieved the journal I had put under it when we first arrived at the cabin. And now, here we are. In the time it’s taken me to write this, the crack has spread across the entire window. There isn’t much time left. I’m sorry everyone. I think I’m going to get back in bed with Mable now. When it breaks I don’t want her to be alone. -Trenton Briggs, January 4th, 1992.


"First off, our deal didn't even kick in right away. I've been waiting years to ask you what THAT was about." Said the middle aged man, sitting on a couch off to the side of a giant fireplace in what can only be described as a castle. "I'm not sure what you mean.." Replied a beast standing in front of the fire, making it look almost toyish in size with his hulking shoulders, massive neck and enormous horns reminiscent in shape to that of a mountain goat. They jutted out from both sides of his head and wrapped around to his back. His skin, a dark black with a hint of green was complimented by eyes that burned bright red with the literal fires of hell inside them. The Devil never appeared in his true form when trying to make a deal, the sight of him would cause most people to lose their minds and it's hard to negotiate with a truly insane person. No, this was a scare tactic that didn't seem to be working on this client. He barely even took notice of the horns. What did I get myself into, Lucifer thought to himself. "You know damn well what I mean. I failed out of school, YOU were supposed to help me with whatever I needed." "I did, school would have just stood in your way and I don't deal in "needs" I deal in "wants" I sent you down the path to get you what you" Lucifer sighed "wanted." "Right.. Clever play on words to cover your fuck up. What is it you're doing here anyways? I haven't seen you in 30 years and you just show up at my house? The years haven't been kind Satan" The man said with a laugh, thinking back 30 years when a very slick looking man walked up to him on a busy street and got right down to brass tacks. He didn't mince words. Admitting he was the Devil and wanting to make a deal. "I'll give you anything you can imagine, any amount of power, wealth, fame, anything. For this all I ask is for your soul in return." Without hesitation the young man said "Deal, I want power. Power like the world has never seen." Satan was a little taken aback, this usually took some work. Oh well, don't look a gift horse in the mouth he thought to himself as he pulled out a contract written in blood, a finger was pricked and the deal was done five minutes after it started. Walking away, Satan looked back, still not sure what just took place only to see the young man watching him leave. On the boys face was a smile he thought was reserved only for his demons. Evil. "Things have changed. I BUY souls, you understand. The souls have to be worth something for me to make the purchase. 30 years ago, you had something inside you that made the deal worthwhile. What you do on Earth still effects the price of the soul I've purchased even after the deal is complete. Recently, your soul has lost it's last redeeming quality. It is completely worthless to me meaning the deal we made is no longer active. I'm not in the habit of giving away power and getting nothing in return." "I guess we both got fucked on this deal then." The man said, slowly getting up and pulling a hollowed out mountain goat horn from a nearby closet. While much smaller the horn looked like Satans, the Devil knew this asshole was toying with him. Almost threatening him. "How did you get fucked?!?" Satan bellowed "Look around you! You are all powerful! Soon you will conquer this entire world! I did this for you! You could have neve...." Satan stopped short. Standing directly in front of him, no more than 5 feet away, the man began to blow into the tip of the mountain goat horn, playing a tune while staring the Devil in the eyes. "Please, have a seat Lucifer. I want to show you why I won't deal with you again." The Devil is a surprisingly calm monster. Even with the clear threat and disrespect from this tiny human he never became angry. Walking over and sitting down on the opposing couch, cracking it in two under his massive weight he began to talk. "Look, we need to make a new deal here. The old contract was never meant for someone like you." "No deal." The man said while writing something in a folder. After a few more furious scribbles he pulled the paper from its leather binder, folded it in half and stood up. Walking over towards Satan he handed him the paper. "This is what I wanted. You never delivered." "You didn't ask for this! You didn't ask for anything close to this! It's not too late, I can give you this if you give back power." "No, it's too late." "It's not too.." "It's too late." "No, it's no..." Looking over the paper the Devil cut himself off, stood and said "Yeah... You're right. It's too late for you." "FUCK YOU! Get out of my house!" "Gladly, but you should know we aren't done here. This contract will be nullified one way or another." "Good luck, now leave." He said, pointing towards his castle door. "It was a simple deal!" He called after Satan as he walked out the door still holding the paper in his massive clawed hand. "Then you should have asked for it." And in a wisp of black smoke he was gone. Having taken the form of a prison guard Satan walked down the halls. The crying and groaning was music to his ears. At the last cell on the block he stopped and called the inmate inside over. "How would you like to get out of this place?" "I... I would like that very much Sir." The inmate replied. "I understand you're a lawyer, you specialize in contracts. You are the best in world at this particular occupation. Is this correct?" "Y... Yes, that is my specialty but I don't know if I'm the best in the.." "No buts. I need you to find a flaw in a contract. It would be very helpful to me and" stopping to look around the prison hall "many others." "And you'll release me if I do this Sir." "Yes. Yes I will. I just need you to sign your own contract first and then we'll get out of here." He said, sliding the agreement through the bars. "Yes! Yes, just let me look this over first and..." "What?!? I'm offering you a way out of this place and you want to read your get out of jail free card FIRST?" "No offence Sir, but as us contract lawyers say, the Devils in the details." "...... Yeah, can't fault you for that." While Satan stood by the cell and waited for the inmate to go over the contract with a fine tooth comb he pulled out the folded piece of paper from his guard uniforms back pocket and laughed. On it was a scribbling of what a 5 year olds mom might put on the fridge if it hadn't been of the Devil of course. It was a stick figure with a head 5 times too big and what must have been the mans attempt at horns. The red eyes didn't actually stay inside the giant head and crossed over into the open paper. Written at the top was "I WANTED TO BE AN ARTIST!!!" Shaking his head the Devil wondered why anyone would ever sign this horrible excuse for art but sure enough, at the bottom right hand corner "Adolf Hitler" was written bold and proud. "It all looks good sir, I pulled out a loose tooth and signed it, I'm ready when you are." The contract was clean. Even the Devil knew better than to try and pull one over on a Jewish lawyer. Three days later the Germans lost a battle that was the turning point in the war. As his armies fell Hitler sat in a bunker drawing stick people. He tried a little soul searching but it proved harder than people made it sound.


There is a beautiful poison inside of Gregory Coleman. It is a toxic blend of charm, charisma and confidence. Although he comes equipped with sharp fangs, he very rarely needs them. People are naturally drawn to his venom and are willing to suck it from him like desperate leaches hungry for his approval. Throw in green eyes and a radioactive smile that arches ever upward over a cleft chin and you have yourself a genuine, gorgeous predator. It is the rare man who can have ninety-nine out of the hundred ladies in the room and be unsatisfied. This was Gregory Coleman, and he was not just unsatisfied, it enraged him. The one he could not have always became the one he would have. This woman could be in a relationship or gay or just immune to his magnetic toxins. The reasons did not matter, only the audacity to refuse him. His three Cs were almost always enough to lure his unsuspecting prey into his web, but it was the chemicals that were the cocoon that incapacitated them. Rohypnol and GHB were his two favorite drugs of choice. Total blackout, no fight, no memory and the drugs were out of a girl’s system before she even knew what happened. Ethnicity, tall, short, blond, brunette did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the word no. The no turned Greg on because most women wanted to sleep with him. Those conquests were boring. When a girl says no and you fuck her anyway, that’s power. That’s ownership. Their most private of privates no longer belonged to them, it belonged to him. Five women had said no to him in college. Only one had drawn the attention of university officials and campus police, but the complaint never went anywhere. There had been four more since he graduated. Women brazen enough to blow him off. Three had gone as expected. Condoms and waxing your body hair, pubes most of all, was essential. A little soreness the next day in the baby dispenser was the only proof of anything. That was as good as if he wrote on her lower stomach with an arrow pointed down, “Greg was here.” His latest “No” was turning into a problem, and for the first time in his life he felt the swag slipping away from his swagger. James Smith knew there were more years behind him then ahead, but for only the second time in his life he felt scared. This time was different, however, because he was not afraid for himself, he was afraid for the person he loved most in this world. That’s a different kind of fear. Parents know the real golden rule. Do anything you want to me, but don’t fuck with my children. That goes for God as well. He had watched his daughter go off to college as a bright, vivacious girl full of wonder and curiosity. She was the captain of her high school soccer team and head of the yearbook committee. She had more friends than he could keep track of, but she came back from college for winter break a different person. She was twenty pounds lighter. Her usually clear complexion was ridden with acne. Her hair was oily and her bouncing blue eyes looked deflated and bloodshot. She had been at home for a week and only left her room to peck at food and use the bathroom. His attempts at conversation were met with one-word answers. When she refused to see her best friend from high school, he knew it was time to force a conversation with his daughter. After several unanswered knocks he peaked his head into her room with his eyes closed and shouted, “Honey, I have my eyes closed. I tried knocking. If you are indisposed, please put some clothes on.” “No, Dad, I just had my headphones on and could not hear you.” James opened his eyes and saw his daughter on her bed with her knees tucked up by her chest and her headphones around her neck. He sat on the edge of her bed and looked at a young woman he did not recognize. “Is everything okay? You’ve been home a week and I can’t help but notice you seem different. I know college can be a big adjustment. Is there anything you want to talk about?” “Like what?” “Like anything.” “No.” “You sure? Christmas used to be your favorite time of year, and it just seems like you are depressed. I figured you’d be excited to be home, hanging around with friends and making sure I was on top of your Christmas list. You haven’t seen any of the old crowd from high school, and you’ve been holed up in your room like a hermit. You may think I’m a dad who is out of touch, but I’m not that out of touch. You know you can tell me anything, right?” She made eye contact with him, and he thought for an instant that she was going to confide in him. Then she looked down and said, “I’m really okay, Daddy. Just girl stuff.” He thought this might be a ruse to make him uncomfortable so he would drop the subject, but his worry overrode his fatherly circuits. His immediate thought was that she was pregnant. “What about Kayla’s mom? She was always there for you when you needed female advice. You want me to call her and ask her to come over?” “I’m good, Dad. Really.” “Okay, I’m not going to pester you. You know you can come to me with anything.” “You might think that, Dad, but sometimes a girl wants to keep things to herself. She needs her dad to keep looking at her the way he did when she was born. You know, pure.” “I would never look at you any other way. Did something happen to you?” Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up off the bed. She looked at the caller and managed to smile at her father. He did not know it took every ounce of her strength to part her lips in an upward motion and flash her teeth. “It’s Kayla, I’m making plans to see her tonight. I should take this.” He felt relief in his gut and let out an audible breath. He patted her on her knee and said, “Take the call. Tell Kayla not to be a stranger. Remember you can come to me with anything.” He left her room hoping this was just a phase that she was going through. It would be good for her to see her best friend from high school, and maybe she would confide in her. James Smith heard knocking from the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth. It seemed too early for a delivery. He made his way downstairs and opened the door. He unconsciously took a step back when he saw it was a police officer. “Can I help you, Officer?” “Are you James Smith?” “I am.” “May I come in?” A knot formed in his throat threatening to cut off his airway. “Through a cracked voice he said, “Sure, come in.” The officer entered and waited for James to close the door before he spoke. “Is Rebecca Smith your daughter?” That’s when James felt the universe start to tilt and he wanted to grab the stair banister so he would not fall off into oblivion. Cops don’t show up early in the morning asking if you are someone’s father for something good. “Becca - Rebecca is my daughter.” “I’m sorry to inform you that we found her body earlier this morning in a 2019 Jeep Cherokee registered to you. All preliminary signs look like a suicide. I’m very sorry, and if there is anything I or my department can do for you please let me know.” James pinched the side of his leg and did his best to open his already open eyes. This was no nightmare. “What do you mean suicide? How can you be sure it was a suicide?” “We are never sure this early in an investigation, but we start with what the preliminary evidence tells us. She was found with a hose running from the tailpipe to the back window. There was also a bottle of prescription pills found in the car. The bottle was empty, and the label scratched off, but the lab techs are going to examine it. There was also a vodka bottle that was half empty.” The officer handed James a business card. “That’s the lead detective on the case. Name is Gladstone. He is the one you want to contact for any further information. He is still at the scene where the vehicle was found finishing up.” James felt like his head was pumped full of helium, and only wished he could float away. “Where was the car found?” “A patrol car came upon it over at the town park earlier this morning. It was parked in the middle of one of the soccer fields.” “That’s where she played soccer as a kid. Are you sure it was Becca Smith?” “Sorry, but yes. We found her driver’s license and other than being a little thinner than in her picture, we’re sure it is her. You will need to make an official identification, but we never want to mislead a loved one. The detective in charge is going to want to speak with you. He can come here, or you can speak to him at the station. Whatever is most convenient for you. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you. Give you a ride, notify neighbors or a relative to come over and be with you. Make phone calls, anything at all.” James’ whole life was his daughter. His wife hated him and left him when Becca was two, but that was warranted. He waved to neighbors but never took the time to get to know them. That was advice from three decades ago that he lived by to this day. Out of necessity he cut ties with his parents. His world as he knew it was over. Nothing had ever mattered to him except his daughter. Her birth changed him. He had only ever been in love with himself until she came along. “Sir, are you going to be okay?” James snapped out of his malaise. “To be honest with you I don’t know. I don’t think there is much you can do for me. I’m going to get myself together the best I can and make my way down to the police station and speak with Detective Gladstone.” “Are you sure? You look a little unsteady on your feet.” “I’m fine. You just told me my daughter took her own life. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to be. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to be alone right now. I’ll be in touch with the detective.” The officer nodded his head and left James standing in his living room. When the door closed, he put the palm of his hand in his mouth to muffle the scream that had been building since the officer asked if Becca was his daughter. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees with a thud. He splayed out belly down and continued to scream into the carpet. He did not move, could not move for the next fifteen minutes. When he finally stood, he could see the carpet had gone dark from his tears and phlegm. He was able to pull himself together to drive to the police station. When he walked through the front doors, he could not remember how he got there. Were gaps in his memory going to be a permanent thing? The officer at the front desk must have been expecting him because they immediately ushered him into the bowels of the police station to a vacant room. Within seconds a round man with a receding hairline and bad mustache greeted him with an awkward handshake and hushed tone. “I’m terribly sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances. I know Officer Simmons spoke to you, but if you have any questions, please feel free to ask.” James went through the motions of answering questions. Was your daughter depressed? Did she have a history of depression? Was she on medication? Was she seeing a mental health professional? Was there a change in her behavior as of late. When James had about as much as he could take, he said, “My daughter went to college and came home a different person. That’s all I fucking know.” The detective waited a few seconds after that remark before he said, “That pretty much explains the theory we have come up with.” “Theory?” “In cases like these we need information in a hurry. Even though the scene may look like a clearcut suicide, we always treat it as a possible homicide. One of our computer techs went through your daughter’s phone and found a link to a disturbing video that was posted on the internet. Your daughter tried to delete it, but our techs are pretty good at finding things people think they have gotten rid of on their digital devices. I know this will be hard for you to hear, but your daughter was gangraped. The footage was of her passed out on a bed. Nine men with brown paper bags over their heads took turns assaulting your daughter. We have already contacted your daughter’s college and the local and campus police. The assholes that did this thought they would not get caught by covering their heads. That’s why they posted the video. Two of the creeps had the same fraternity tattoos on their shoulders. Only a matter of time before we get one to roll over on the rest. College students are not your typical hardened criminals. You only have to lean on them a little and they would give up their own mother.” James Smith threw up all over Detective Gladstone’s shoes. Gregory’s parents tried to throw money at the “No” that was becoming an increasingly large thorn in their son’s side. She would not rest until she stood across from Gregory Coleman in a courtroom and saw him taken away in handcuffs. The Coleman family were sitting in a defense attorney’s office. A 25,000-dollar retainer was required for the “No” that would not go away. She was 600 dollars an hour and double that for time in court. Stella Grangnoqi was Ivy League educated and she had cut her teeth as a prosecutor in Detroit. There was not much she had not seen. She suspected the well-to-do family had a spoiled, narcissist of a son who was used to getting what he wanted, never expecting consequences for a hand caught in the cookie jar. “Listen to me very carefully, this victim is not just some anybody from anywhere. Her mother is a head honcho for The National Organization for Women. That organization has a lot of clout nationally. She sat at the president’s table at one of his fundraisers last month. I know because I was there. The alleged victim is being groomed to take over the Michigan chapter. Her pointing a finger at your son in a courtroom is going to carry a lot of weight. An arrest is imminent. There is no good news here. In most cases I could sell Greg’s face to any jury in the world, but I don’t know if I would take that chance here.” Gregory Coleman Sr. spoke. “What are you suggesting? That we take a plea? My son is innocent. I don’t care what this woman says.” “It doesn’t matter what you think. It matters what 12 strangers think. The evidence is circumstantial, but compelling.” “You said there was not a shred of physical evidence.” “There was no physical evidence of rape, but there was plenty of physical evidence that he was in her apartment.” She put her hand up before they could protest. “I know you said he was invited there, but he-said-she-said comes down to believability. Mom has the means to scour through Greg’s past. If there are any skeletons, she will find them and will dance them in front of the jury like a Halloween parade. It’s not a matter of if, but when Greg is arrested. You might want to think about a plea. He is going to have to do time, but I can get that down to a minimum with hopefully no sexual offender status. The alternative is a double-digit sentence with Greg going to prison as a sex offender. They don’t do well in prison.” After two days of serious conversation, Greg’s family decided on the best course of action. They took the money they were going to spend on their son’s defense at trial and bought him a new identity. He was given a new driver’s license, social security card, and passport. With the notoriety the case was starting to generate thanks to mom and daughter, the police had issued a warrant for Gregory’s arrest. Gregory left Michigan and headed for Canada, cutting all ties with his family in fear of any communication being traced back to his new digs. He was given the most common name in the United States to further aide his disappearance. With a name like James Smith, he could dissolve into the world and start over. He could make a life he deserved.


The Lieutenant was staring at the huge, ornate double doors in a vicious sweat. It had been a pleasantly cool evening in Paris, even with the stifling scarlet uniform he wore, it should have been cold enough to dance without breaking a sweat. Yet... he stared at the lacquered wooden door. It showed, in its ornamentation, two horses rampant. The Lieutenant’s breath heaved in his chest, painful and slow. He couldn’t do this. He went to turn away, unable to face what he had to do. The gentle humming of music sounding his retreat. He turned and met Captain Drake’s energised blue eyes. “Ah! Lieutenant!” His genial greeting shook the Lieutenant out of the sights and sounds only he could hear. “I thought you were with our tender Doctor, not leaving us so soon eh?” ”No sir, I just...” ”Star struck by our great Colonel, the Duke of Wellington?” Drake’s smile betrayed his pleasure at so easily determining the issue plaguing his regiment's newest lieutenant. “‘Pon my soul that will simply not do, I’ll introduce you” he beamed at the dumbstruck lieutenant, who couldn’t put out any words to protest at the assumption. Drake put his arm around the still somewhat moist lieutenant and opened the door with his other hand. The door was thrown open into a well lit, lavish ballroom. With tapestry lining the stone walls, casting shadows round the edges of the ballroom. The room was filled with men in the uniforms of Europe's armies. British scarlet, Prussian black, Russian green, Austrian white and even French blue speckled the room like a painting. This was all chased by the sheer variety of fashion and colour on display by the women. Cream, grey, green, and blue accented the uniforms of their menfolk. The ornate chandeliers gave the light to the bathed pale powdered faces as well as sun-browned and scarred faces, that topped these colourful outfits. Some turned their faces their way, scanning the two to apply any recognition to the blue uniformed cavalrymen. But there was one that caught the lieutenants eye. She was wearing a black dress, with pinned raven black hair, contrasting her powdered white face. Her deep brown eyes locked with his and in that moment, he would have rather fought the snarling cuirassiers in his dreams. For she looked upon the lieutenant, not with hate, not with loathing or disgust, but with a genuine smile. He blinked hard. He nodded as he was paraded past, unable to look away for a second. Giving the look, not of lust for a pretty woman, but as if she had sprouted wings and flown away. He was sucked out of his slow motion torment by Captain Drake saying his name. “My lord, this is Lieutenant Frederick Mercer” He was suddenly looking at perhaps the most distinguished member of the ball and he couldn’t recall walking the floor to him, such was his trance. “Ah, I didn’t realise Captain Mercer of G Troop had brothers” the Duke of Wellington asked, in all his purported coldness. “No your grace, we’re of Middlesex not of Yorkshire” “Well, you could be a Mercer out of hell, but if you fight like our regiment did at Waterloo, you’ll be fine in my books. Were you there?” “Y..yes your grace” Lieutenant Mercer stammered, trying to suppress the memories of hooves and blood that were bleeding into his mind at the mention of the place. “Good show my man I-” The Duke abruptly stopped as another guest came through the door. “Will you forgive me gentlemen, I have a prince to greet” The Iron Duke walked past Drake and Mercer, followed by his coterie of aides and sycophants. Talk of a Blücher coming from the Duke could be heard faintly over the polite conversation. This left Drake and Mercer to their own devices. “Well... that wasn’t so hard was it?” Drake said, slapping the back of Mercer. “Now, I have a punch bowl calling my name and there will be a woman who shall be calling it by the end of the night” He grinned at Mercer. “Though it looks like you’ve got a scent, you old dog you!” Drake had caught Mercer, looking a bit too long at the black dressed woman. “Steady on, my good fellow, the night is young and it’d be ill manners to leave too early with a woman, but I won’t stop you if you think patience will be a virtue with this hunt” He slapped Mercer on the back again, and when Mercer looked back, Drake was gone. Mercer was still terrified looking at the woman in mourning. She had her back to him and he found his right hand was jittering. The pre-battle shakes that affected some men, yet in this airy ballroom in Paris, it was upon him again. He couldn’t move, even as he tried to take a step towards this black-clad harbinger. A flash caught his eye, and he thought he was going to yelp, as a glass pitcher caught the light. But all Mercer saw was the glint of steel-tipped lances and shining breastplates. “Ride them down!” “On to Paris!” as the thunder of hooves swallowed the faint chatter and clatter of feet dancing. The dancers were crushed by sweaty heavy horses crashing into broken infantry and exhausted cavalry. Parry, cut, kill; cut, cut, kill. What Glory! Calls of triumph fuelled his own roar of exultation at breaking Napoleon’s vaunted cuirassiers. He raised his sword, taking up the cry “Onward to Paris!” “Onward to-” A gentle hand, and voice popped the vision like a boil being lanced. “Mister Mercer isn’t it?” She was right in front of him. Her black-lace gloved hand on his arm. Ice slashed at his guts as he stared into concerned brown eyes. Yet, he began sweating again. “Uh” he gulped. “Ye..., yes” She smiled. “Coronet Mercer, from the Duchess’ of Richmond's ball?” she inquired. “Yes, he is I” He smiled weakly. Take a hold of yourself Lieutenant, you are not a child, you are a cavalryman of the best cavalry in the world, act like it. “Lieutenant now” He put in with more confidence, but behind the confident smile, he was brittle at the reminder of how he got the rank. “Ah” she laughed slightly. “I could never get your silly soldiers’ uniforms right”. Mercer chuckled, not knowing what to say. “Marcus talked of you fondly” She remarked. Mercer’s already aching lungs couldn’t push out a sound at a mention of that name The silence stretched out before them both, like a battlefield, becoming awkward. She looked away as she asked the question that broke Mercer. “How did he die?” She looked at him after asking with such fierceness he almost took a step back. His mouth worked but sound and voice eluded him. “They told me he died a hero, but that’s what they all say. What will I tell our son? That he died a hero like every other man who died bleeding at a surgeon's table? That he died a hero, like those that were hacked to offal? That he died a hero, blown to Kingdom Come by a cannon?” Her meek demeanour and coy politeness had vanished, to be replaced with such a vivid and fiery temper, in such a short time made Mercer reel. “Mrs Fairbank” He protested meekly. “Don’t you Mrs Fairbank me” She hissed. “I’ve spent the last few months being told all the platitudes and all the excuses” Her voice then took a mocking tone. “Mrs Fairbank, this is most inappropriate” Her voice changed to be slightly higher. “Oh Mrs Fairbank, we’ve told you! He died a hero!” Her voice shifted to a bad Scottish accent. “You’ve got a mouth on you young lady, you shouldn’t be talking of such things” She looked him dead in the eyes. “Well?” Her sudden fury, so well concealed to the other ball-goers, that they had no idea of the blessed, pure rage of a widow that had been unleashed. “Because if I found out he died like a coward trying to ru-” “He died a hero!” Mercer forced the words at her like a roundshot. He hadn’t raised his voice over the gentle music, but his force of will drove into her like a sword point. He had taken her tirade, unable to defend himself as she, and the memories of that day, pincered him into inaction. But that last remark had ignited the fury in his heart, the insult of his memory pushed burning oil in his veins. She stared at him. Both were shocked at the sudden, intense emotion being fired off like Howitzers. She looked away as the same silence that filled the battlefield after an artillery barrage, accompanied them in that ballroom. She turned to look at him again, delicately wiping tears from her face. Suddenly feeling guilty, he opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was died in his throat as he heard her say: “He told me too much of war.” Her voice was surprisingly steady as she laid out the words. “It was my own fault. I was never able to be told no once my curiosity peaked.” a flicker of a smile accompanied her recollection before being drowned in sorrow again. “All the ways young men die on those fields” her voice cracked for the first time. “He listed them in great detail, in great anger after I touched a nerve one night.” she sighed before wiping another tear away. “So... Lieutenant, tell me how he died, I’m begging you” Mercer watched as she clasped her hands in front of her. A single tear made a line through her powdered face, like a roundshot hitting a line of men. Her eyes implored, beseeched, begging him and for the first time he was calm. He wasn’t nervous, his hand wasn’t jittering as if he was to charge all over again. He knew his duty. This is what he had come to do. He swallowed his fear, like he did that day. This time, to simply say thank you. “It was just after the Red Germans had been destroyed” He began his tale with the dead littering his mind, willing him to tell their story. Her aching gaze faded to the small walled farmhouse surrounded by French blue coated demons and Red-Coated corpses. “The elite of France’s cavalry, the Cuirassiers, had just butchered our men around La Haye Sainte. Lord Uxbridge was ordered to deploy us to sweep them away.” He took a deep breath in and met her eyes. “I cannot convey to you the joy we felt in that moment. All of us, thundering towards the enemy's elite mounted troops before they could get behind their infantry and get away with their perfidy. Such burning joy took us all, as if the Holy Spirit itself ignited our blood to bright holy flame that beat in our veins. It was like ascending to a higher plane of existence, to be close to the saints and heroes of old for just a moment, to touch what made them glorious.” For the first time in months a smile opened his face, revealing a rather handsome and kind hearted man rather than the dour, anxiety ridden wretch he had been since that day. “It reached fever pitch as we ploughed into them” He had gripped his dress sword unknowingly in his fitful recollection. ‘What a time to be alive’ I thought! To see the enemy that had subjugated Europe crying for help as we slashed them down. Our hooves driving their dream of Empire into the mud. As what was left of the horsemen fled, the French infantry, caught completely off guard by the retreating cavalry, fell before us. The smell of blood spraying up your arm as a carpenter or farmer judders your blade with his last breaths before oblivion, the sound of broken bones as the men who fell were trampled by our might, that taste as sweet as the fruit the devil gave unto Eve.” So deep in his trance, he did not notice her expression change to horror. But she stayed silent. “‘On to Paris!’ The cry was. We’d ride every crapaud down between here and Paris! We were Gods of War unbent, unbowed, unbroken, indefatigable!” In that moment his face fell into horror to match the widows’. “We hadn’t noticed the French lancers had come from their reserves. Just as the cuirassiers, who had reformed whilst we wiped their infantry off the map, counter charged.” A tear began forming in his eyes. “‘My god,’ I thought, ‘I’m going to die’. The feeling so complete as my companions, my brothers in arms, fell before me. I felt cheated, ‘this isn’t how I die!’ I roared at them, I am a God of War. I parried the first gleaming warrior to reach me and broke his arm with my heavy blade before wheeling and killing another with a blow to the back of his neck as he tried to get past me. I took another's sight forever as he tried to attack something to my left. It was then I noticed Marcus had my bridle and was shouting at me. ‘Run! Fly you stupid whoreson!’ I looked to see the lancers were enveloping us, and so we rode like the devil himself would take us if he caught us. I saw Marcus get clear of the lancers as I felt a force of nature take my horse from under me. My right leg was in such agony I had thought I would lose consciousness as my horse nearly broke my leg. A lance point protruded out of my steeds’ side as I landed badly getting out of my saddle. I tried to stand, I stumbled, adjusted then I toppled as my leg finally betrayed me. I stood again and tried to hobble to the safety of our infantry square, then I felt the devils pitchfork lance his lava into my back. The force had knocked me flat and had pushed my lungs free of air. I pushed my head up to see a horseman thundering toward me, and I would be damned if I would die like this, so I got to my knees and put my blade in guard. I wiped the mud and blood from my face just time to see the horseman thunder past me, and a scream to follow. I heard a familiar voice shout my name but I was insensate. When hands tried to grab me from behind, I flailed uselessly. But then I saw the blue cuffs of my regiments uniform and recognised Marcus’ voice. He pushed me up onto his horse. ‘I’m getting you home to your wife like I promised’ he yelled as he tried to ride through a group of four lancers who had now closed the enveloping trap. She was in full on tears unbeknownst to Lieutenant Mercer who was also leaking from his eyes, neither making a sound apart from Mercer’s retelling. “I couldn’t breathe, until I coughed blood in a painful fit as Marcus thundered at them. He parried one, thrusting at another, with his horse barreling past the parried lance point into the unexpecting lancer’s horse. We all tumbled. I was thrown from the saddle. I must have broken ribs when I landed as I couldn’t force a breath in. It instead came in shuddering agony what felt like an eternity later, as I saw Marcus stand back up. His left arm hung limply by his side, but he had his blade held firm. He was yelling at me to get up if I was alive, we were paces from the infantry, but the lancers, furious at the death and wounding of their comrades, were on us before we could have run.” Mercer’s voice cracked for the first time. Feeling ashamed as he tried to stop himself from crying freely. Everytime he opened his mouth to finish his story, it would sputter into silence. The both of them, tears flowing, everyone else dancing unknowingly near the two in grief. “I... can’t... I” He moaned in anguish. “I’ve heard enough,” she squeaked. It was then she hugged him. Despite the looks of the older more traditional members of the ball thinking it inappropriate. The two souls slipping under in agony held each other for support so they would not lose themselves to the endless bruise of the soul that sorrow was. “He died saving me” He said simply, when the agony abated just for a moment. She held him tighter as the words came out. He didn’t care that his ribs ground together under her gentle pressure. “Thank you” she whispered as she let go, both of them now feeling a bit awkward and ostensibly being strangers, yet sharing a moment of such intimate existential grief for a good man gone. “For what?” he finally said, unceremoniously cuffing his tears away. “For telling me the truth” “But he... they even gave me his damned rank... Why would...” “He always put others before himself,” She whispered. “He did,” he conceded. “Besides he died a hero, like you said Lieutenant and as he wanted” “Better than most men that day. I still see sabres and breastplates when I sleep. The scream of men and horses. The smell of blood... him...” She put her finger on his lips in a surprisingly intimate gesture. “Then tonight we will dance all night, so you may have the small relief you have given me and we shall tell stories of him, something to tell his son and your comrades. They gave each other that brittle smile that people in agony give you, when a brief respite appears and insulates them from that hurt, for just a moment. “Thank you.” He whispered as they went to join the dancing. To put that hurt on hold, like the heroes they were, for a hero they loved.


Blue, Red I wasn’t exactly sure what I was about to experience, but I had feared the worst. What else would you expect when the police give you a videotape from your best friend that they found left in their room after they had been missing for weeks? I held the tape in my hands, and a knot in my stomach. Both were heavy to me. The white strip on the front side said, “To Tim, Sorry” in his methodical handwriting. I swallowed hard and pushed the tape into the VCR. I felt another welt emerging in my throat as I head the plastic slot flapping, a sound I found kind of funny. Some sliding technological noises swam around mechanically before the TV screen turned to the empty, haunting blue bearing the ghostly white letters ‘VCR’ on the top left. I had seen it a hundred times, and it was more unsettling for every horror move I had seen, and this time, one thousand-fold for what I would soon see. The screen transitioned to static momentarily before customary, grainy lines flickered on screen signaling the beginning. Jerry stood in front of the camera on a small clearing overlooking a forest. He walked firmly forward and sat in front of the camera like he was sitting face to face with me. “I haven’t had a great time in this place, but you already knew that. We really had some great times together. Skating at the park in the day time, riding bikes at the park in the nighttime or around the track when no one was out; sitting around the campfire telling scary stories with Janice and your little sister. I remember when you were there to back me up against that asshole Jackson when he and his jackass friend wanted to pick a fight, or when you hyped me up to go tell that cute girl at the park that I liked her, telling me the skater guy look was guaranteed to wow the girls who didn’t know how to skate and sat gawking at the cool people pulling off the stunts. You said, “we’re those dudes bro!” Recently I just felt like things weren’t going anywhere once you started college and I was stuck at home helping around pop’s shop. You and I both wanted to be those insane stunt makers on TV doing death defying tricks on those giant half-pipes. I know I still wanted to. My parents said I had to stay and work with them, we couldn’t pay for college. I thought it would be fine, but things really aren’t going anywhere. Sometimes ill go to the park by myself, do some kickflips, I even learned how to grind a rail. You weren’t there to see it though. It’s just not the same without you there. The place has been replaced with kids I don’t know, didn’t wanna know em. I’m just doing the same shit everyday. What I do today is the same as tomorrow, same as yesterday. My dad’s promotions don’t keep me going, mom’s words of encouragement don’t keep me going. I’ve been keeping this a secret from my friends, from them too. I just don’t want to keep doing it. I know they’ll be sad, I know you’ll be sad too. I’m sure I’ve lived up to their approval, I can see it in dad’s eyes. I want my own approval from my own eyes when I look in the mirror, but I don’t find it. It’s all just uninteresting, my sweat feels cold.” I felt like someone’s fingers were pushing on the back of my eyeballs. I was shaking. I felt some of my own cold sweat too. He was smiling a little when he talked about how we used to hang out, about how his parents really do love him, how he remembered charlotte. But even so, he just sounded so, tired... Not the kind of tired you felt after a long day of play after school was over and you got into your fresh bed after a shower hating the next school day but knowing you were going to do it again next time. Not the kind of tired when you watched scary movies and stayed up the whole night with Jerry by your side. It was hard to tell really, maybe the kind of tired that made you want to puke. The kind of tired you felt postponing this tape because you feared what was in it. The kind of tired in a zombie movie where you watched all your friends die and you were the last one standing. Yeah... that was it I think. He kind of looked like a zombie. I hated it. The shaking, the urge to hurl, the pain in my head and eyes looking at the bright screen. For a while he would look down while he talked, the sound was a little muffled cuz of it, and I could hear some wind howling in the backround and little digital dead leaves being thrown about. Then he picked his head up and smiled brighter than before. His mouth opened a little like he was going to say something a few times, like he was trying to put into words something he felt others wouldn’t understand. Would I understand? “You know, its really weird. Its been dull, boring and grey, but I’ve kept ignoring something really interesting. Aren’t humans weird? I’ve thought about it since I got a cut as a little kid, and the more serious the skating injury I thought about it more. All this red liquid we need under our white skin. Our whole body, all the soft parts stuffed to the brim with it. It’s a wonder we don’t just explode when we get poked. I mean, sometimes when you poke the right place it busts open like a leaking pipe. We’re like these weird sacs of skin ya know? We got all the guts n’ stuff in there, hot dogs and shit turned to mush and dropping through our intestines after some fun. But where its really at is in the head. We got that dull looking brain in our head, filled with blood and some other stuff I don’t get but isn’t it crazy? How do we even think? Is there something else in us? We’re more like sac balloons I guess, the blood comes out if we popped, but so would the air. Maybe that stuff in our head would fly around when we pops.” All that talk was making me more uneasy. The images of a grisly death was in my mind. One of those science mannikins, the one without skin, showing off all the gross parts was obscenely streaking in the empty sickening blue of the TV screen before the tape loads. He was saying all this stuff while looking intently at the camera. Maybe he wanted me to get it, to push all those thoughts through the screen and into my head. I didn’t want them, but I reluctantly accepted it, I had to as his friend seeing this last moment. He looked right at the camera, I could see the intensity of his eyes, glaring with more life than I had seen in a long time. Then his head drooped down again, and he said quietly, “I’m sorry Tim, I’m gonna try and let it out.” Then the video abruptly ended. All the tension was pushing on my skin now. I dashed out my room and into the streets. I ran and ran and ran. I didn’t want these thoughts right now. I didn’t want to imagine what happened after the tape ended, so I ran. I forced air into my lungs while my blood boiled. I was getting exhausted, but I kept going until I collapsed. I couldn’t rely on anyone right now except the open sky. It was overcast and all the heat was inside me instead of the sky. For just a moment there I got to forget for a little. After laying on the ground for a while I stood up and let the wind blow on my sweaty skin. Maybe he was in that gust. Eventually my fear transitioned to anger. I used what little strength I had left to chuck some rocks out in the open. He better be sorry, because I’m gonna feel this gnawing feeling. I feel it now, I’ll feel it when I’m at my apartment, and I’ll sure feel it when I go home to see my parents soon. There’s already plenty of unanswered voicemails on my phone.


The Moth I decided to lay down in my bed and just lay there not tired but also not energized. This state is described by me as the comfortation observation because it's comfortable and your mind is just very crispy in observing your surroundings. You can imagine me in this state laying on my left side on the couch bed in the middle of the room. It's one of the older flats in berlin. The wall reaches up pretty high. I m just laying there looking at the wall, then paintings I made then my actual bed. Nothing sparks any reaction in my brain. Then a moth flies into my field of vision and I fixate on it watching it fly through the room wondering what a moth’s life is like. We never know what another person’s life is like. I’ve thought about this many times. Even your siblings or parent’s life you never know how it is really like. Just how nobody knows how your life, your 24/7 perspective of things is like. And just like that, we don’t know how a moth's life is like. What struggles does it have where does it wanna fly how does flying feel for it? The moth almost flies out of my vision but my neck automatically enables my eyes to follow it. The interest in that insect which I would normally think of as annoying made me even lift my upper body up putting the weight on my left arm. It still flies around and occasionally it comes pretty close to me. I think about smacking it down but remind myself to chill. That poor moth is buzzing and flying around no place for this arbitrary need to feel powerful over an insect. It flies to the corner on the other side of the room and I lose it for some seconds and wonder where it went. It seems like it's hard for my eyes to follow it when it flying in a straight line away or towards me because its wings just have this blurry effect. I decided to organize my laptop a little bit since my brain is so bored its interested in studying the life of a moth. The moth approaches again as I have my laptop on my lap and since there is only one more light source it flies into my face area. When I decided to not chill anymore since the thought of it flying in my face and touching it is revolting so I slap after it halfheartedly. Not surprisingly it can Jackie can it's way out so I try the ninja slap but the moth just goes with the flow and glides past my hand and flies away. I look after it how it flies through the door to my kitchen where it will live its life and be my roommate and I decide to write a short story about this motherfucker. That’s all of the story that’s it. I just have to write more to get the 500 words in. ok but now.


Chapter 2:  When Leonia woke up the next morning, the smell of smoke permeated the air. Her head pounded and her body ached. After the villages encounter with the Guerrier tribe, she had tossed and turned in bed all night, replaying the scene over again in her head until she couldn’t think straight. Now, she walked into the kitchen where she saw Nanette and her sister seated at the table. June grabbed a handful of blackberries they’d been eating and dropped them next to Minuit who was waiting patiently under the table for her share. Leonia wasn’t much of a morning person and greeted the two with a groggy “hello.” She pulled out another chair and sat down next to her sister, plucking a stray berry from the table. ”Nanette,” her sister asked cautiously “why’d those people burn the headman’s place?” Leonia, who had the same question, looked over at her aunt and waited for an answer. Nanette hesitated, “Lots of folks ‘round here believe the Comb Jellies are magic,” she began, ”You girls ‘ve heard the stories. Years ago, when the waters rose from the sea and flooded everythin’ in sight, they floated up from the deep, and wandered into our bayou. They breathed life back into it. Provided us with a whole slew of living plants and animals that helped our folks survive. They been Givin’ us what we need ever since.” Her gaze turned toward the window and she continued her story. “The Guerrier ‘ve always lived on the other side, away from the comb jellies. And for a while they did ok for themselves. Trained those gators to help ‘em hunt for food and protect ‘em. But now their food sources are dwindlin’ and they’re strugglin’ to feed their families. Guess the only way they think they can do that is by forcin’ us out.” “But there’s more than enough here for both of us! Why can’t we just live together,” June demanded, jumping out of her chair. “They’ve never gotten along with us folks over here. They been fightin’ with us for generations. Ain’t never been able to solve nothin’ without violence.” Suddenly Nanette’s face brightened into a smile and she clapped her hands together. “Alright Girls, I got to get to a meetin’ now. I don’t want ya’ll leavin’ this village. It’s too dangerous out there.” She plucked one more blackberry from the bowl, popped it into her mouth then walked out the door. Leonia knew she had to get to that meeting. As soon as Nanette was out of sight she ran to her room, threw on the clothes she wore the day before and pulled her hair up. She was just shouting a hurried goodbye to June when she stepped out of the door and ran straight into Ambrose. She couldn’t help but smile when she realized it was him. “Oh, hey Lee! You on your way out? I was just coming by to--” She pushed past him and out the door, “We don’t have time to chat. We”ve got to get to the village meeting.” “Wait,” he grabbed her hand before she could get away, “they’re not gonna let us in. It’s just for the elders.” When Leonia tried jerking her hand from his grip he held on tighter. “I know that.” she gave him an annoyed look, “We’re gonna listen in from the back door and see what’s going on.” “Fine,” he sighed, giving in, “Let’s go.” \*\*\* The meeting hall was on the same jellyfish island as the hut that had burned the night before. They crossed the floating bridge that connected the two and came face to face with its burnt shell. The remnants still smoldered on the ground. They trudged past the remains and walked on towards the village hall. It sat at the back edge of the jellyfish, near a grove of tall cypress trees. They slowed down as they neared the back entrance. When they reached the door, Ambrose grabbed the wooden handle and pulled it towards him slowly until they could peek inside. Leonia turned towards Ambrose and gestured for him not to make a sound, then they both peered through the door at the village elders who were gathered inside. There were seven of them in all, including the village headman and Nanette. They stood in a lazy circle arguing with one another. “We need to defend the lands ourselves,” Old man Ducote shouted at the others, “we can’t let them push us out.” *‘What other choice do we have?’* Leonia thought, watching them bicker. ‘*There’s nowhere else to go in this world. All that’s beyond the bayou is an endless ocean.’* Virgil, the headsman, piped up from the middle of the group. “Well, we only have till the next solstice to decide. That’s when they said they’d be back.” Then he looked directly at Nanette, “what about the Drylands? I say we go there. I’m sure the folks living there would welcome us. You been there before, right?” *‘The Drylands?* ’Leonia shot Ambrose a questioning look. She remembered the stories Nanette used to tell her at bedtime about The Drylands but she had always insisted that’s all they were, stories. There was no truth to them at all, just something made-up to help her and June sleep at night. By the look on Ambrose’s face, he didn’t know anything about The Drylands either. He shrugged his shoulders and they continued listening. “I was a young girl, Virgil. Not much older than June and I don’t think them folks would welcome us with open arms. Even if they did, I don’t know how to get there and we don’t have a boat big enough. I say we stay and defend the land.” “Who’s going to defend it?” Letty asked looking around, “Us? Everyone here is either too young or too old. We’ve never had to fight before. We wouldn’t know the first thing about defending ourselves.” Nanette looked around the room. “We can train ‘em. Our ancestors fought for these lands and we can too, we have to, and we have to start now.” All the elders began to speak at once and their raised voices soon turned to shouting as they struggled to be heard over each other. Their voices echoed and boomed around the hall. After a few more minutes of failing to discern a word, Ambrose and Leonia closed the door behind them and began making their way back home. “Ambrose, the summer solstice is only three months away!” They had just stepped foot back on their own jellyfish and Leonia’s mind was reeling, “Our people can’t fight off the Geurrier. What are we going to do? And The Drylands? What was that about?” “I think we can take ‘em,” he said grinning and punching the air, but Leonia had her doubts. In Nanette’s lifetime, their people had never had to go to war. Had never had to deal with a threat like this. Decades ago, there was a peace treaty between them and the Gurrier people, but it looks like that was over now. “And about the Drylands Lee, it makes sense. The world’s much bigger than you think. We couldn’t have been the only people to survive the flooding.” They continued their walk in silence then Ambrose suddenly stops, “Lee! Come with me.” He grabs one of Leonia’s elbows and drags her toward his home. He barges past the doorway, ignoring his mother standing in the kitchen and heads straight for the hut’s backroom. Ambrose’s grandfather had passed away a couple years ago but his room still looked exactly the way he left it, a mess. A large, unkempt bookshelf took up most of the wall on the far end of the room and piles of paper were cluttered over a small desk and chair. Items that had been salvaged after the great flood were scattered about in random places. “What are we doing in your grandpa’s room?” Ambrose ignored her question and rifled through a drawer in the desk. After another minute he pulled out a small, rolled up parchment, bound by a piece of string. “Found it!” He untied the string and unfurled the paper. Her curiousness got the better of her. “What is that” Leonia asked as they both stared down at the document. Then, her eyes grew wide. *‘It’s a map*’. Hand drawn, and by the looks of it pretty old as well. Its edges were wrinkled and parts of it were torn but it was still in fairly good shape. It looked nothing like the maps they had seen of the world before the flood. This one depicted a large mass of land surrounded by water and three separate chains of small islands. Another portion of the map simply read ‘The Bayou’ and was illustrated as a tree surrounded by dark water. “Is this a map of the drylands? She grabbed the map from Ambrose’s hands and continued to study it. “Hey--” “Can I borrow this?” She was already beginning to formulate a plan. If this map is real then the Drylands do exist and that means there’s hope. “I don’t know,” he frowned and gave her a knowing look, “Why do you want to borrow it?” “I just want to show Nanette and ask her if it’s real. And ask her why she and everyone else have been lying to us.” She lied. She didn’t plan on showing it to Nanette at All. Ambrose had never been able to tell Leonia ‘No’, and a look of defeat crossed his face. “Fine. I guess you can borrow it but I want it back in the morning.” \*\*\* Storm clouds had begun to gather in the sky and cover the stars as Leonia grabbed her leather pack. She slung it over the side of her pirogue and it hit the bottom of the boat with a solid thud. It was filled with items she thought she might need on her journey: a pocket-knife, length of rope, some gator jerky, a fishing line, the map, and a few other things. She hated sneaking off like this, not telling anyone where she was going, but if they knew her plans, they would have refused to let her go. She needed to get to the Drylands and back before the summer solstice arrived. Hopefully, a tribe over there could help them. Maybe, they’d be able send a boat for her people or even send fighters to help them defend their lands. At Leonia’s feet, Minuit canaried out a few small chirps and rubbed against her legs. “No Minuit, you can’t come with me. “ Leonia gently patted her head and nudged her away. She had just spent the rest of the evening with June and Nanette, eating dinner and telling stories like nothing was wrong. Savoring every last moment before she snuck off in the night. Even Nanette didn’t mention what was about to take place. Probably trying to give everyone one last day of normalcy before their world was yet again turned upside down. Leonia was just trying to hold on to them for a little longer. Just in case she didn’t it back home. As Leonia stepped into the pirogue it rocked back and forth under her weight. She grabbed the sides to steady herself, sat down, and then picked up an oar. She launched herself away from the comb jelly’s shores and took one last look at home. *‘Goodbye Aunty, goodbye June,’ she thought* then glanced over at the hut beside it, ‘*goodbye Ambrose.’* She wanted so badly to take Ambrose with her, to have his lazy smile and goofy laugh along for the ride. She would have asked him to come along, and he would have probably said yes, but she needed him here in the Bayou. He wasn’t as lazy as other people thought him. He was stronger than they knew, he could be serious when needed, and he could help protect the island. He could be the strong leader they needed right now. She knew he had it in him. A moment later, Leonia heard a splash in the water. She looked out and groaned, “you pesky rat.” Minuit swam up to the side of the pirogue, leaving a trail in the water behind her. She grabbed the capybara under its arms and lifted her inside. “ Well, I guess your coming with me after all.


I live in Tucson, AZ. One day last week, I had nothing to do, so I drove down to Mexico to buy a new pair of boots. I’d been needing some for a while, and the peso had recently taken a dip, so it seemed like an opportune time. I parked in Nogales, AZ, about a quarter mile from the border. As luck would have it, there was a dollar bill on the ground right by my car. “Even better than free parking!” I thought, as I put on my mask and walked into Mexico. Apparently the other gringos in Southern Arizona hadn’t gotten the memo that the governor of Sonora had opened their border crossings again, because I was one of the only people walking across, other than an older fellow in front of me, who made a beeline for the dentist’s office once we were through the gate. I wasn’t planning to stay long, so I headed right to the western wear store I had in mind, found some nice looking, full grain, brown leather boots for 1350 pesos, and offered 1200. The guy agreed immediately, making me think I should have offered less, but it was too late and I was already getting a pretty good deal. I pulled out my card, paid, and that was that. Nogales, Sonora, is cooler than Tucson, but it was still a warm day and I was thirsty, so on the way back to America, I stepped into a drugstore with a drink fridge by the counter and grabbed a small bottle of Coke and a liter of water. “Veinte pesos,” said the lady. I hadn’t changed any cash, as I’d been planning to just use my card for the boots, so I pulled the lucky dollar out of my pocket and asked “¿Se acepta un dólar?” She agreed, I handed her the dollar, and that was that. At this point, I figured I’d get ahead of the inevitable effect of a water and Coke, and asked if there was a bathroom I could use. She pointed me next door. Next door was a narrow store front that was completely empty except for two guys sitting on plastic chairs and an ice cream freezer with a paper sign that read, “paletas 10 & 15.” Using my best frase común from the days of Spanish 1, I inquired as to the location of the bathroom. One of them pointed behind himself while the other said, “Al fondo.” All the way back. The bathroom was exactly what one might expect in an empty storefront in Mexico staffed by two middle-aged men selling ice cream bars. It worked, though. As I walked out, I thanked them, but the man who had pointed said, “son diez pesos.” Naturally, I had forgotten that there are no free bathrooms in Nogales, except for those in restaurants reserved for paying customers only. However, I did not have 10 pesos, and in fact had no cash on me besides a 5 dollar bill. So I asked if he could make change. “No.” I wasn’t about to pay $5 for a thoroughly lackluster bathroom experience. I also didn’t want to irritate these guys by... well what would one call that? Obviously not a dine and dash. Tinkle and trot? No thanks. A sudden thought occurred to me, though. “No tengo monedas, pero ¿quieres una Coca-Cola?” I don’t have any change, but would you like a Coca-Cola? He smiled and held out his hand. I took the Coke from my bag, paid, and that was that.