there once was a boy with knives stuck in his voice. No matter what he said, it hurt the people around him, the boy just couldn't help it. Even if he didn't say anything offensive to someone, it still hurt them, just the sheer noise produced, a high, cutting pitch, something never heard by the likes of man before, would make the inner workings of your ears bleed, if you listened to it long enough. All he wanted was a little affection. just somebody, for once to actually love him. a mother, a father, a friend would have sufficed. he should have known the first time a whole village abandoned him in the middle if a woods; no one wanted him, or his foul remarks. but he didn't learn, he had the simple mind of a child. the boy would walk during the days, crawl in the darkness of night, just to find a home. but every town he found, just kicked him out again. but he didnt learn, he had the simple mind of a child. his cry's pierced the silence of the forest at night, birds flew away in fear, his shrill scream lured hunters to him, believing it was an animal, dying in their traps. but all they could hear when they saw him was, just as ghastly as his voice. the poor child, he was just an unidentifiable bulk. you could hardly call him a bulk though, he was nothing but a remnant of his former self. the boy hadnt eaten for days from the looks of it, his skin was peeling, hair grew in patches. his ribs, they were hypnotic, just watching them stretch the pale, brittle skin. scabs were beginning to form, at nearly every inch of his body. the two hunters felt pity for the boy. they left some food for him, and then left as fast as they could, they were horrified of the grotesque child. if they really felt pity for him, they would've killed him. the night the boy ate was the first night the forest heard true silence for so long, no one actually knew.that night the boy actually slept. the dreams were the sweetest thing he had ever experienced. the dreams gave him a new feeling of life, he didn't have the will to death any more. or was that the food? the boy learnt to fend for himself. he admired those hunters, he wanted to impress them, be like them. to him, they were to first people to show him any compassion. but the boy was as much a terrible hunter, as the villagers were terrible humans. he never learnt. his voice scared of every single one of his prey. except the fish. the boy was expert in catching fish from a river. the joy on his face was unmatched, as he pulled his first fish out of the stream with his bare hands. many nights passed after the night with the hunters, and many dreams accompanied them. the boy had found something to cherish. night after night he went to his den, night after night a scream let out, sounding so much like a childish laugh. his den was a crude piece of art. tightly packed under the roots of a relatively young oak in the forest of elders, its roots resembled aching joints submerged in the depths of the river, the boy used grass for a simple beading. old fish bones were hung up from the tops of the roots. oh he was proud of his fish bones. one day, the boy was out “fishing”. there was one fish he had his eye on. it was too fast for him, even heading upstream. up and up they went, the boy wasn't going to give up. before he knew it, night had fallen. the boy was scared, he had come a long way from his little den, so far upstream he was on a slope. that was the first night the forest had heard the boys crys for so long. he didn't sleep at all, he was scared he just wanted to be home, to be loved again. after the progress the boy made, it was undone in just one single, sleepless night. the following morning, he woke in a pile of golden red leaves. autumn had arrived. the ground was damp and boggy. he tried to set for home, following the river downstream. the boy dragged his feet through the mud. for hours, he walked and walked and walked, still no where closer to home. he was surprised at the distance he traveled the day before chasing the fish. Then he heard it, a scream,a cry for help. it was a sharp noise, but it didn't make the boy cover his ears, only pay more attention to it. at first he thought it was himself, but how could it be, if he was here, and the noise was over there. the boys childish nature made him curious. step by step, he trekked through the mud. it soon began to dry out as he made it closer to the noise the forest was thinning, the noise was increasing. he thought he could hear voices thrown in hear and there, laughing, tormenting. the boy had reached a clearing on a plateau. it was most likely the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, or will ever see. the field had patches of scarlet poppy's in between patches of long white grass. and in the middle of that, the noise. a black cloud, dancing around in a single fluid motion. the boy got closer and saw ravens, hundreds of them, words flying from their beaks, taunts and insults thrown to the centre of the mass. and in the centre, a single carrion crow, half the size of the ravens, and not able to fully form words like them, but screams, the same screams that caught the boys attention. he screamed. the child screamed, drowning out the noise of the ravens. the crow joint in. the boy started running in and out of the group, trying his best to scare the ravens off. but they laughed at his futile attempts. this made him scream louder and run faster. eventually the crows got bored with picking on the crow, and lost all interest in the child, waving his arms about like a madman. they were gone. it was just the boy with knives stuck in his voice and the crow that couldn't sing. the screams lessened and lessened, until all you could hear was the far of call of the ravens caught in the wind, and the slow steady breathing of both boy and bird. on closer inspection, the crow was actually much bigger, but in poor condition. still not as big as the others, it had fresh blood dripping from where the ravens talons took swipes at him. its feathers were torn out in patches. and it was weak, malnourished. they boy tried to pick him up as gentle as he could, but the crow struggled. finally the boy got hold of him. the boy could see he was hungry, but he had no food. he had the next best thing a carrion crow could wish for; living human flesh. the boy bit his finger, making it bleed, only with a small yelp of pain. he tried stuffing it into the crows face, but that didnt work. at long last, the crow got the taste of blood, and pecked at the boys hand until he was satisfied, all the while, the boy screamed. but he tolerated the pain, not flinching his hand away during the feeding. the path back to the river was a long and tiresome one, the boy was feeling faint. the crow wanted to stay with the boy, so he let it sit on his shoulder. they screamed at each other the whole way, having some strange conversation in the most bizarre of tongues. he had finally found someone to love, and to love him in return. the boys dreams had come true. that night, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, and blood on his neck from success. a dreamless sleep soon fell upon him. the boys body became entangled in the branches of a relatively young oak tree in a forest of eldars, its fingers submerged in the waters of the river. the crow was perched above. it flew down and landed on the corpse, pecking strips of flesh away from the bones of the bloated, floating body.


It is 1997 and I am 8, my father is in his 30s, what I'd later realize was slightly past the peak of his life. I am just at the cusp of building my own and realizing who I am. I'd grown up too fast; my earliest memories are of my parents fighting, screaming, threatening to leave over the stupidest thing. Google didn't exist and it is funny to think a search would have made some enduring peace between them, when in reality it would have driven them apart even quicker. Search results for "cheap divorce attorney" immediately come to mind, along with dating sites and strangely cropped photos on a profile page. My memory is good and even that long ago feelings are intense, if I close my eyes I can remember my brother in his wheelchair, crying out, straining to reach to feed him blueberry yogurt and oatmeal, fruit. He is older than me and strong, wiry from his lack of coordination, what he wants he muscles his way toward across the floor. I learned quick to avoid his hands, the softness or maybe the color of it lured him in and he'd grab, tangle it in his fingers and pull it, and the rest of you toward his mouth in a surge of pent-up energy, like a snapped mousetrap, no warning. Neither he nor my sister, who'd grow up damaged and hateful in her own way, were here today. My dad and I were close then, two people on different paths but still longing to get away, even for a few hours. The day is humid, overcast, cool. In brief patches the sun breaks through but in between those windows, the belly of gray clouds overhead grumble and it hisses a fine rain down onto green grass and gray water. Tires grumble over pavement and he parks, I get out of the van and grab a bait bucket full of silver fish, a white Styrofoam container of worms and a pole. We walk over the pavement onto grass. We both know where we're going. There is a dam with an artifical lowered outflow on the other side of an earthen levy and an overhead bridge that provides shelter from the rain. Underneath it there are boulders, cool and sandy to the touch, I sit on one with a flat surface and bait a hook. My father does the same and within two hours we have a wire stringer basket full of bony, wriggling fish with wide pupils and blue-gray flecked sides. Though he doesn't say it, each is another substitute for something more expensive we can't comfortably afford. I don't know what the daily limit is, and I doubt he knew either. It was abnormally good fishing. We pack up our things and as we do, people who arrived after us, start to move into our places, jealous of out catch. My father had remarked under his breath at some point previously they hadn’t had any luck, and I noticed now how quickly they picked over the rocks to cast into the dense school of fish and take their fill. He offers them our remaining minnows and they accept with a grumbling thanks. We walk back toward the van, watching out for goose droppings over the grass and struggling with the weight of the basket when I turn back and see the flashing lights on the road at the top of the levy. Some people have gathered at the edge of the lake but seem reluctant to go in. My dad turns to watch, but it is impossible to tell what exactly is going on. We later read one of the men, the oldest, had snagged a plastic bobber on a submerged log and waded in to retrieve it, maybe only knee deep. Whether he slipped on the seaweed, it grew thick there beneath the surface of the water, like moss, or was pulled in is unclear. He was pulled rapidly under the surface where he became pinned to the water outtake piping underneath the lake, we read it takes the lake engineer nearly 30 minutes to arrive and longer to turn off the flow and allow the man to drift back up to the surface. It is too warm to imagine the water's chill could have slowed down the damage, saved him in a strange twist of fate, and he cannot be brought back to death. We see many other things in other trips: a falling plane jumper with a faulty parachute, a meteorite falling into the Pacific, horseshoe crabs and haze over a Californian saline sea. Unprompted this day at the lake comes up so many years later, how it trumps so many happier moments can't be explained, but regardless neither of our recollections of the day have faded and the facts remain the same. Noteworthy: the fishing always tanked in that spot after the man’s death so it was rare we'd even consider it as a choice fishing area again, as did many other anglers and eventually it became overgrown with rose and raspberry canes, inaccessible and forgotten unlike that day in memory.


During college, there was an ordinary night that saw me come home from an evening study session in one of the academic buildings. As I entered the residential building where my dorm was located, I received a text. I fumbled through the contents of my pocket and by the time I had retrieved my phone and read the text, I had entered the large winding stairwell in the center of my building. I stopped to type a reply to the text I'd received. I'm no good at walking and texting simultaneously- some people can do it. I'm not one of them. As I stood in silence at the bottom of the stairs penning my reply, the door from the floor above me opened. Someone else had entered the stairwell. I don't think I even would have remembered that part if it weren't for the events that followed. My stairwell companion, from the landing of the floor above me, took a few steps and stopped, I presume to gauge if anyone else was occupying the stairwell at that time. I was directly below my companion, texting in silence, so it's reasonable to assume that they didn't realize I was there. Suddenly, flatulence. Like a bugle at dawn, a fart burst into the silence with the singular force, candor, and flourish that only a nasty big messy wet fart is capable of. For perhaps five whole seconds, blups and bops trumpeted out of my stairwell companions rear. Ben Franklin once said the only certainties in life are death and taxes. I can add that, with certainty, I shared a stairwell with someone who defecated (at least a little) into their pants. After the barrage of farts concluded, the mystery farter proceeded down the stairs. I remained glued to the floor, frozen with terror. Eleven or so steps beyond the first-level platform and the farter's identity was made known to me. She stood approximately five foot fine and she was an absolute knockout. I couldn't believe my eyes both in terms of the magnitude of her conventional attractiveness and associating that conventional attractiveness to what had just occurred. Immediately, her face blew past red and turned a smoke-on-the-water shade of deep purple. She took a step towards me- perhaps a gesture to see if I'd pretend that what happened hadn't. I wasn't having it. I said "nuh uh" out loud (something I still regret) and went back outside. She was NOT going to crop dust me in that stairwell, no sir. After that evening, I started to see her more frequently. In a cafeteria, walking to a class, in the gym- on multiple occasions we made eye contact and she'd scurry away in shame. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't a big deal. People fart! I regret overreacting, especially if it made her feel uncomfortable! This is something that we could laugh about! Alas, I never had the chance to try and smooth the awkwardness between us or acknowledge the events of that fateful night. Anyways, that was about 10 years ago and now we work in the same building. Still haven't spoken.


The two men are in the small house. One of them is slumped against the wall. He can’t move much. The one that stands has a black beard that has been stained with blood and puss. He holds a bloody axe in his right hand. His chest is heaving. It is the slumped man’s blood and puss that is in his beard. The sun is setting. The orange glow is bitter as it yawns through the old house. It is cut to shreds by windowpanes and door frames. “Hey,” says the one on the floor, “I got some cigarettes I’ve been saving for this shit. Still got your lighter?” Standing nods. “Where are they?” “Breast-” slumped over wheezes for a moment. His teeth begin to glint red. They are the colour of wine. “Breast pocket,” he managed. Once they’re both lit up, standing checks his watch. He breaths out. His beard feels heavy. It’s like some creature has crawled up his front and hooked onto his face. Slumped over cackles, “don’t forget the gun.” “I won’t forget the gun,” standing bares his teeth. They are yellow. One is missing. Standing is shivering. Then he says, “it’s only got one bullet left.” “Fine. Let’s...let’s use a different word. Don’t le-leave with...without giving me the gun. And it doesn’t matter. I only need one.” Standing’s hands are shaking now. The hatchet is still clutched tightly in his rectangular, dull fingers. It is like it is welded to his palm. He checks his watch one more time. He makes sure that slumped over can’t see the face. The orange glow begins to wither. The shadows begin to smother it out. Slumped over knows time is running low. His eyes drift to the gun lying on the nearby kitchen counter. He looks at standing. “Check the cupboards before you go.” “Already done.” Slumped over chuckles, and it becomes a strangled cough. Blood and puss leak through his teeth and stain his cigarette. “Nice.” Both men sit there. Standing doesn’t go to give him a new cigarette. Instead, he shakes. His exhausted, red eyes roll around in their sockets. At some point, he put the hatchet down. Clutched in his fingers is a golden crucifix on a chain. Slumped over said something. It sounds like a cars motor ticking. “What?” Standing looks at him. He doesn’t move. He sits. He shakes. “The world was easier when it was flat,” slumped over manages. He smiles again. His cigarette falls to the floor. It almost looks like the descending evening is cutting it in two. “Like...you remember, whe-whe-when you would read those picture-picture books as a kid,” his eyes are glassy now. They twist around the room, and for a moment, it looks as though slumped over can see ghosts. Standing clutches his crucifix tighter. “And those...those books, they showed the world...” he blinks and with strength that seems impossible, he lifts his hands like a half-assed Nazi salute, “flat.” Standing looks at the gun. He still shakes, and the gun is sitting there on the counter like a demon, like the devil that sits on your shoulder, mocking him. Slumped over’s arm is frozen. Finally, it drops. “Flat. And the sun would drift over everything, and then eventually fall over the edge. It was easier. Because you could...there was an end to it, you know?” The evening light is almost gone now. Standing clicks his neck. When he puts his crucifix back on, the little gold icon gets tangled in his beard. Slumped over is still talking, but standing doesn’t notice. All that he has left of is caught in the tendrils of this creature that crawled up his front and latched onto his face. Once it was black as night, but now it is bathed in the blood that he drank from another man, this demon that holds his faith in its crimson claws. He can’t help but moan, and he snatches at it, wrenching and pulling at his hair and the chain, and the orange light is almost gone, and his watch is almost at six o’clock. The chain snaps. The crucifix falls. “I have to go,” standing bursts out. Slumped over looks up at him. His skin is waxy, his lips are dried. They peel with scabs of blood and puss. Standing grabs his hatchet. Forgive me father. He turns to go. “The gun,” slumped over manages, “give me the gun.” For I have sinned. Standing turns around. He grabs the gun, and he drops it into slumped over’s lap. “Th-thank you...I know what this means. I know how hard it is for you.” Understand why I did this Lord; I had no other choice. Standing walks out. His crucifix is forgotten on the floorboards. It is stained with slumped over’s blood and puss. The door closes behind him. The night sky has coated the orange afternoon with darkness, and stars blink into existence. When he was a child, his mother used to tell him that the stars were angels. Until now, that had always filled him with such joy. Father, I understand that you test us mortals. He hears something hit the front door of the house. It thuds the same way that a slab of meat does on a kitchen counter. Seconds later, a second thud, then a third, and then the thuds are overlapping each other, and then the demented moans of the undead crescendo into the black night. They coat the silence of the night, like the blood of another man coating standing’s beard. The door collapses with an almighty sound beneath twitching, vindictive corpses. Whether it’s his imagination, or if he can actually hear it, the moans are punctuated by the sound of the gun being cocked. Understand father, I tried my best. I did everything lord, I tried to suck the infection from his body, I did all that a mortal man could. And then, the sound of an empty gun clicking, like a demon spitting venom. Standing opens his hand. The last bullet glistens golden in the moonlight, just like his crucifix used to glow. When he closes his hands over the bullet, his fingers look like the elongated claws of the damned in the dark. He remembers what his mother used to say: “God created your body for you. It is not yours to damage, to alter, and above all, it is not yours to kill. Suicide is a sin.”


Derek was snoring when I crept in into his bedroom a bit before 8 am. His sandy hair had tousled itself into one big cowlick. His eyelids clamped shut, fighting to keep the day at a distance. “I’m going to look at your sketchbook, ready or not,” I announced loud enough for him to stir. He had sat past midnight on the floor in his room, scribbling on 15 by 15 sheets of paper. The oversized tablet and one black pencil laid on the floor next to his bed. He always refused to sit at a table. He drew, watched movies, and ate on the floor. Often all at once. I picked it off the floor and took a deep breath, dreading what I expected. The first page rendered a pudgy barista. She wore a heart pendant around her neck, a foolishly small boating atop her frizzy hair, and a coffee stain shaped like China on her light t-shirt. The second presented a rickety old man, standing at a near 90 degree angle while leaning on a cane. I remembered his painful shuffle as he passed us on the street. I didn’t notice Derek even looking at him. The third was a tall woman with regal posture and perfect hair. She carefully checked her reflection in store windows as she walked. Derek’s self-soothing guttural shriek scared her into a brisker pace. And on and on, page after page. Each drawing was as exact as a photograph, capturing minute details - an unruly swish of hair, a baggy polo shirt pulled taut by a bulging gut, even blemishes on hands. Yet each omitted one thing: a face. Below the hairline, above the neck, between their ears, there was nothing but blank white paper. I watched him wrestling with his blankets, hoping to return to slumber before I could grill him. His two-month-old hobby of drawing portraits stunned and unsettled me. First, he never seemed to look at anyone for more than two seconds. He hasn’t since diagnosed with severe autism 27 years ago. He rarely looks at me and I am with him all day, every day. Yet those two-second glances were all he need to absorb their features, even their essence. Derek was 3 when his language turned to mush and then disappeared. He stopped pointing and gesturing. Then he stopped looking us in the eyes. That’s when he became unmoored. Over decades, his mom and I chased every therapeutic lead from rote matching to electronic impulses, from mainstream to Hail Mary with no success. He’s 30 now and still doesn’t speak. His form and level of autism is severe and isolating, an amalgamation of befuddling quirks. Second, I didn’t even know until a few weeks ago that he could draw. Someone on an autism support group suggested I try to give Derek an outlet that connected him to others. He had never shown interest in drawing or anything else for that matter. The void, the vacuum, the black hole. His mother would use all these terms to recognize the disconnect between what he demanded and what he gave back. Until one day, a year ago, she left us. “I’m dying in slow motion, every day,” was about the last thing she said to me. And lastly, where were the faces? How could someone leave out the first thing most of us look at, the most connective aspects of a person? Raising him involved detective work, looking for clues. Why he did this or that, what is he thinking, where is he hurting? But this was a whole another thing. Did he not see the faces or were they just unimportant? He is a fulltime job and I have multiple sclerosis, which is akin to carrying around bags of sand. I have nobody to watch him, so I began looking to him for a group home. “Quite a pair, aren’t we,” I said to him, this time much louder. “It’s time to get up. The doctor Harris is coming to visit you.” He rustled, turned, stretched his neck, and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer me. I figured the more I talked to him and greater chance he might one day respond. I got him a squeeze bottle of water. “Time for the bathroom,” Derek. “Got to get going.” He sat up, still slumped and dazed. “Bathroom,” I commanded He followed me, the plastic diaper he wore to bed was plump with urine. He knew the drill, emptying his bladder, washing his hands, putting on a fresh pullup. He turned to leave when I put my arm on the door frame of the bathroom, blocking his exit. “Derek, I need you to look in the mirror.” He didn’t move at first. Then he tried to edge past me. “The mirrrrr-orrr,” I said. I rapped one of my knuckles against the cabinet mirror above the sink. He didn’t look. I grabbed both his shoulders, turned his body, and pushed up his chin until he faced the mirror. Derek is 6’4 and more than 200 lbs. He leaned on me to clear a path out. “C’mon Derek, can you see your face?” I watched his eyes, searching for a glint of recognition. It struck me at that moment that I had never seen his look in a mirror or linger on any photographs of himself or his mother. “That’s you, Derek!” I touch his face and then the image peering back at us. He looked toward ceiling. I grabbed his left hand, placed it on his face and then stretched the hand to the mirror. “That’s you! That’s your face!” He jostled his way past me and into the kitchen, meaning he was hungry and wanted to change the subject. “What’s with you? Why no faces? C’mon, help me understand.” He sensed my rising irritation and kept his eyes trained on the floor. He was never a performer. Decades ago, before he was a toddler, he walked up to a piano in an old bookstore and, instead of banging on the played like most 7-year-olds, played a lovely, lilting melody. Everyone in the shop stopped, rapt by his music. As soon as I stood over him, he jumped off the bench and never again touched a keyboard (even after I bought for him). Dr. Harris, an expert in autism at the local university, arrived early. She was striking. Tall and pretty despite oversized glasses dominating her prim features. I imagined her faceless portrait. She declined my coffee and knocked on the open door of Derek’s room. He watched an animated video while eating cut-up waffles. The drawing tablet sat nearby him. “Hi Derek!” She sounded like a long-lost friend. He glanced over his shoulder and turned back to the video. “Can I look at your drawings?” He didn’t move, so I grabbed the tablet and led her into the living room. She examined each portrait, shaking her head in amazement. “Have you ever heard of prosopagnosia?” I asked, her, knowing she did. But I pressed on. “Some people call it face blindness. About 40 percent of people with autism have it to a degree. They can recognize shades of colors, identify patterns, and see most things correctly, “just not faces.” “I think he’s the opposite,” she said. “Our faces bring expectations, unpredictability, and real life, like sadness and anger or deception. I think Derek feels the power of a look more than anyone.” She asked about Derek’s mother. How she related to him and why she left. “She was absorbed and obsessed by him,” I said. “She was his lifeline, but he wore her down. She just wanted... I don’t know... she would have settled for a second glance; an acknowledgement would have meant everything.” She looked down at the tablet and rifled through all the pages. “Notice that he doesn’t draw scenes or things?” she asked. “It’s always people and they jump off the page. He’s involved. I think faces pressure him. Being mute, he has few if any options to change a person’s mind.” “So, I’m not supposed to look at him?” She glanced at him sitting on the floor in his room. I often forget that he hears and understands everything. His silence made me sell him short. “Look, this is easy for me to say, but I suggest you appreciate his gift,” Harris said. “He is not trying to upset or unsettle you. He is communicating. After a few more minutes, she handed me his tablet, headed for the door, and just before leaving, said, “think I can get my portrait if he draws one?” After she left, I went to Derek’s room. I got on my knees and hugged him from behind. My eyes watered with each blink. I placed a photograph of his mother on the tablet. “Can you draw her?”


This is a spin-off (if thats what its called?) of a friend of mine's story. I took some liberties with the rules of magic a tad, but I hope it holds up to what he had originally imagined. Also, because I enjoy having stories read to me, I decided to read this one aloud: And lastly, anyone familiar with Chapter 1 of The Princess Bride might recognize a few familiar lines. I hope they seem more in homage to Goldman's (\*ahem\* I mean, S. Morgenster's) work than ripping it off. \ “IT WORKED!” I shouted with such force, my body was shot upright in the bed, my hands raised above me in fists of triumph and awe. Immediately after the minor celebration, a new, haunting realization came over me. “It ...worked.” My arms lowered to my side and my eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness. There was a window in front of me, covered by horizontal slats that let in different hues and strengths of light. They didn’t flicker like candles, but they did grow and shrink. Sometimes moving from left to right, quickly, sometimes flashing and disappearing. Each one illuminating the small space I was now occupying. Strange sounds I had never heard creeping in along with the lights. I slowly became aware of the two eyes staring at me, high up in the corner of the room. I was almost shocked at how long it had taken me to notice. Familiar in their shape and meaning, the creature was sat atop a solid structure with drawers and openings. *Of course, she would have a cat.* *But are you... are you* ***my*** *cat?* *One way to find out...* I slowly tried to exit myself from the bed, noting how immensely soft and delicate the fabrics and coverings and cushioning were. *Was she royalty?* *Surely not royal to have sleeping quarters so small...* I made a clicking noise with my tongue. “Here... little kitty.” I whispered slowly. “I’m sorry you’re confused.” The cat’s ears twitch backwards and its head lowered, slightly. *Amazing creatures, to recognize me as someone unknown so immediately.* “You probably miss her, don’t you? It’ll be ok, Kitty.” I spoke softly as I lowered my head toward the cat. *You’ll get your answers in time.* *In the meanwhile, you’ll discover I’m just as patient as you.* I could tell dawn was breaking as a familiar, slow-moving glow began to fill the room. And then, I saw it. I saw... me. A mirror from floor to ceiling was affixed to the wall adjacent to the bed, and my body gasped. She was... frail. Her hair, mashed to one side, most likely due to the softness of her pillows. Her chest was sunken in somewhat and her arms, weak. She had markings of different colors all over the tops of both shoulders that ran down her back and sides; drawings of woodland critters and flora. I ran my hands across her collarbone and I could feel how thin her skin was. *This...is me?* *How is this...pathetic creature ...me?* Up until this point, I had assumed the spell had worked perfectly. The transportation of all higher lifeforms from my word to this one was supposed to be a ...parallel move, of sorts. Technically, this body belonged to me. Just, not the me that grew up in *my* world. But how could any version of me seem so absolutely underwhelming? She looked tired. The type of tired that builds over time, as if she hasn’t known a normal routine of health and sleep for months on end. And she felt just the same - used up and worn out, empty, and short of breath on most inhales. Worse than physically inept, she felt powerless. I flexed her fingertips and felt nothing. No spark, no flash of ability, no electricity at all. This woman was wholly and utterly inadequate. Untethered to any strong form of elemental or etherial magic, I wondered if I had gotten something wrong. *Surely, there is no universe in which I am so disturbingly pathetic?* *This is not the body of Ardnaxela, Witch of the Wildes, Unchalleneged Sorceress of the Bloodmoon Mages, The Midnight Feline, The Last Dragontamer, Rider of -* I gasped as my eyes met hers, still ice-blue and yet somehow less alive. “Petrix.” His name left my lips as a whisper, but it fell so heavy, it brought me to my knees. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t...I didn’t want to...” I kept repeating single syllable words and simple phrases. My mind hadn’t decided if I should keep crying or start yelling and somehow, I ended up doing both. *Would any goodbye have been enough?* *What would you have wanted to say, witch?* *Nothing could have changed how it was going to end, you knew that.* “I know...I know...I just... ” Her body convulsed as I sobbed, broken and alone, truly alone. Magic was gone. My own body was changed. The world I loved, lost, perhaps forever. And yet somehow, I knew I could live without those things. But I wasn’t sure how to hold up my own head knowing Petrix was out there, in *this* world, living a completely different life than the one he shared with me. “My Petrix, **my** dragon.” I felt my shoulders get hot saying those words. *Mine*. I was angry. I was possessive. But why should I have been? Are dragons ever owned? Certainly not by bewitched witches and the longings of my innermost parts. The secret things. The neediness. I had to let go. “Forgive me...forgive me, my Favourite.” I had told him to look for me. That was the last thing I had said to him. And yet I wasn’t even sure he would be capable of remembering. “Would my Petrix ever forget?” It isn’t a fair question to ask. I had no idea how this spell would work. I don’t know if it is possible for him to remember the old world, let alone the short years he spent with me. I buried my face in my hands and let myself feel the weight of his absence. I was unlinked. I couldn’t feel the wind under his wings, the heat of his breath, the strength in his scales. I couldn’t feel anything. When my tears began to run dry, I lifted my head and stared at my gaunt reflection, eyelids swollen with sorrow. *That’s enough.* *Let go.* It began to dawn on me just how little I understood this spell. If it was capable of sending me to this world, this undesired version of myself, what else went wrong? I knew others had made the jump with me, and I had tried to ensure that only the people in liege with the General had transferred, but now I wasn’t so sure. And suddenly, hope. “Is it wrong to be excited that the war might not be over? That someone...unwelcome may have tagged along?” Life without a dragon wouldn’t be worth it. But if I unknowingly placed an entire world at risk by bringing such a destructive force with me, then I had no choice but to set it right. My reflection smirked and I realized that as soon as I figured out how to pull magic in this world, I would fix her hideous snaggletooth. And then, of course, save everyone. Again.


There’s a vulture on my fence. It’s been there day-in, day-out for the last week, ever since I moved into my new house and graduated high school. Sometimes, I feel like it’s been with me longer but I can’t explain where the feeling comes from. There’s a vulture on my fence. His body is as dark as the night and he’s always quiet, patient, and watching. I know he’s been with me longer but I can’t remember him. I swear he’s watching me, but maybe it’s just paranoia. There’s a vulture on my window ledge. He’s watching me now. I know it. I was looking at childhood pictures upstairs and when I looked up towards the window, I saw his eyes staring back at me. I went back to looking at dreams and passions long-abandoned and he never left. When I went to sleep that night, he was outside my bedroom window. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. His presence is eerie but comforting. There’s a vulture staring at me as I read my childhood journal. It’s 10 AM and I’m lying in bed thinking about what I’ve lost out on. I wanted to be a chef once, but the last time I cooked was in 8th grade. I wanted to be an artist, but the last time I painted was sometime in middle school. I cry over the unfulfilled dreams of an idealistic child, and the whole time the vulture stares at me. He looks bigger than he did yesterday. There’s a vulture on my fence. I’m eating dinner with my family, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about lost friendships, broken hearts, and what-could-have-beens. The whole time, he’s staring at me. I turn to look at him, and he keeps staring. My family looks at me oddly, maybe they just don’t care about the vulture. The Vulture stole my journals. I’d left the window open when it was raining to feel the drops on my skin when he swooped in, grabbed my journals, and flew out. He was a lot bigger than he was yesterday, and I fell on my back when he flew in. I didn’t get up for a while. Then I went to sleep. The Vulture is gone now. I hope he’ll be back, I want my journals back. I liked reading them. I’ll move into college in two months, and I’d like to reminisce a little before I move out and away from my family, from my what-could-have-beens. It’s been a week. I remember the Vulture now. He was there when I moved to Minnesota. He was there when I moved to Hyderabad. He was there when I moved to New Jersey and had my adolescent heart crushed. He was there when I moved south to a place I didn’t really fit in. When I switched schools. When I was stuck inside for a year. He was there then. He was there in January when I tried chasing my dreams again, when I wrote something, when I showed it to a girl I might have had a thing for. I remember seeing his massive body outside my window while I wrote. Now he’s gone, and he took my journals with him. He's been there a lot. I wonder why. His absence is haunting. It’s been two weeks. He came back today. The journals were left outside my window. When I went to grab them, he scratched my left hand once. It was the closest I had been to him, and this time he looked even bigger than before, about six feet tall and towering over my crouching body. I went back inside, closed the door, and he didn’t leave. There’s a Vulture on my fence. He’s watching me. I think he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.


We kids always called it The Last House in Town, but really it was just outside of town limits. With its old red brick covered in summer's ivy, its hot tin roof for the cats, and its perimeter fence of spear-topped wrought iron, it looked suitably forbidding. Especially at dusk on a foggy night. Edna Bligh had lived there since birth, and was now its solitary inhabitant, as far as we knew. She and her brother Herman had lost their parents to a vehicular accident some twenty years before. After inheriting the house free and clear, they had stayed there, never having married. Herman was the town's sole solicitor, and Edna had earned her keep by her skill as a dressmaker. In the spring of nineteen hundred and forty- nine, Herman was murdered by the father of a man he had sent to jail. Edna had seemed to be in perpetual mourning since that day. On her rare visits to town, she could be seen riding her Schwinn bicycle. Garbed in black, with lace-up leather boots, she wore a pillbox hat with a net veil covering her sharp features. We were in awe of her, not only because of what had happened. She seldom spoke, had the aspect of a dangerous bird, and seemed to rush wherever she went, as if in disdain for the whole of mankind. The large wicker creel strapped to her back fender reminded us uncomfortably of a certain Witch we had already heard tell of. In the first days after Herman's death, Edna costumed herself in the endless black of her future. For his burial, she paced slowly down the line of mourners to his graveside, cloaked in charcoal, even to the velvet mask that covered her eyes. Evoked were the bats of Dracula, and a wedding to the dead. Edna was not seen for ninety days from that stilted graveside walk. In that time, the fall of the year burned down to winter's ash. At the Last House, men and machinery could be seen. Men with hoods who did not speak to any outside of that boundary. We curious kids, with borrowed binoculars and too-big sweaters, skulked behind the poor brick partition of my front walk, making a nervous party out of the Watching. *** Our old town's Main Street business district was less than a mile long. It was intersected by First, Second, and Third Avenues, and many businesses had come and gone in its decades of history. Aside from the Post Office, there was one that remained in memory, and indeed it still occupied its rarefied space. Its plate glass window had once been destroyed by an angry but cowardly man and had been renewed with a double pane of "safety" glass. This had a slight tinge of greenness and was curiously embedded with many crisscross strands of wire. Brand new letters of gold leaf had been applied to its inner pane, reading "LAW OFFICE- H. BLIGH" Herman, after the first shock, and having to wait for the repairs to be effected, decided it would be a good time to "update" the office a little, and so he brought in painters, carpenters, and carpet layers. He was not long settling into the new place when he was called to represent the Crown in a case of armed robbery in a neighbouring village. It was one of the Baker Boys, whom he knew (and detested) from his younger days. Mark Baker was not one of the actual triggermen, but it was alleged that he had driven the getaway car. Evidence was largely circumstantial and the outcome was in doubt until Herman, who was very well connected within the town, managed to drum up two credible witnesses who would testify. In the end, Mark was sentenced to five years. Three days later, as Herman was locking up after a long night at the office, he was shot to death through the safety glass of his office window. Several tenants had remarked on the dark pickup that had sat in the rain that night, but they could not give a positive I.D. of the attacker. *** Howard Baker had been very careful. He knew that Herman had earned a few enemies in the county, and he knew also that he himself would be a prime suspect. To that end, he had stolen a pickup from a nearby farmer who was away at auction, and had waited in the dark downpour until Herman had decided to call it a night. He wore dark rain gear with a hood that shaded his features, and with his leather gloves, slip-on rubbers, and the heavy silencer on his .38 , he thought to leave little evidence of his presence that night. When the deed was done, he drove off into the darkness, ditched the truck in a wooded area, and, using the bike he had brought with him, pedaled through the rain to complete the nearly ten- mile journey to his house. It was not long before he had a visit from the law. *** Something curious was happening at the old Bligh house. There had been many comings and goings of workmen in the weeks that Edna had been gone. The heavy iron fence with its spears had been uprooted and taken apart in sections. Along its outline, a deep and narrow trench was dug. We kids were on watch every second we could spare. At last, the queerest thing of all took place right in front of our eyes. A truckload of stone slabs and red brick arrived, followed by a cement mixer. Into the trench, stone and cement were laid, and, over several days, a brick wall some eight feet in height and a foot thick took form. It surrounded the house completely, save for a heavy oaken door, which was domed at its top and framed and buttressed with black iron. When the wall was done, the old fence of spears was installed upon its top. The men and machinery finally left, late on a foggy and cold afternoon. Edna had not been idle during that time. It had been quite a while since she had paid a visit to old Verna, the woman who had mentored her in something more than dressmaking. Verna was another confirmed spinster who had lived, with minimal help, in the house of her birth, and was now alone. Twenty years Edna's senior, she had often looked after Edna and Herman when their parents had been otherwise occupied. Verna was delighted to see her, in spite of the circumstances, and insisted that Edna stay with her awhile. And so, from Verna's home, Edna made arrangements to have Herman's old office repaired and secured, once the Police had quit the premises. She also learned and partook in things that might give you and I a chilly feeling up the back of our spines. *** Howard Baker had never been an excitable man. Fact was, not much scared him. He was slow to anger, but when brought to that state he would lose all reason. It had led him to do murder, and in his self -righteous mind he was a hero for its doing. Guilt was an emotion somewhat foreign to him. When he slept, it was the sleep of peace. On that night in late fall, he had retired early after an exhausting day of haying and mucking out stables. The forecast promised a nasty storm, but that was no bother to Howard. By 9:30, after a couple of beers, he was snoring. A short time later, the rain came on with a vengeance, and distant lightning woke a muttering of thunder. A black pickup truck stopped at the entrance to Howard's long driveway. A tall thin figure got out and, not minding the streaming rain, walked slowly towards the darkened house. In his dream of accolades, Howard's heart swelled now that he was finally getting his due. He smiled and waved at the adoring crowd, and the happy ending brought him peace and the quietude of expiated sin. But soon a black hand, palm outward in token of rejection, disturbed and troubled his art. He awoke suddenly to explosive lightning and immediate thunder. In the afterglow, a face in his window. Raven-like eyes, sharp hooked nose, and a small tight mouth contorted with hate. Howard was paralyzed and thought with hope that the face was but a nightmare. Indeed, when the next flash came, the face was not there. He thought to get out of bed to collect his wits but found that his body would not obey. Hoping that sleep would take him, he tried to calm his jumping nerves by using a mantra that he had once heard a hypnotist employ. Something about intentionally relaxing your muscles, one by one, starting at your toes. Howard was just getting to his knees when, in the next strong flash of lightning, a tall figure could be seen standing in his open bedroom door. It was the owner of the face, and as they locked eyes, it was upon him. With its thin strong hands and sharp nails, it grabbed onto his ears and drew its grim countenance to his. All the while looking straight into his soul, it whispered these words: "Howard Baker, ye are the one. You gave to one of mine their own private Hell, and then their death. I am inside ye now. Your soul is mine. You will walk my walk for the time left of your life, and it will be long. I have sold my own soul for this, for I have rejected my God, who said that vengeance was given to him only." And then, dry crusted lips laid a cold kiss upon his trembling forehead. Howard had soiled himself. *** If one had awoken early enough, they might have seen, at the site of Herman's law office, a smart-looking and very erect old woman dressed in red. With a confident mien, she brought forth an iron key from her bag, and made entrance to her new world. In gold leaf, the letters in the window spelled out VERNA MARTIN- FASHIONS FOR THE TIMES. If one had stayed up late enough, they might have seen (if they didn't mind the rain) a tall thin figure in black who also produced an iron key from her bag, and unhurriedly gained entrance to the Bligh house. There was a booming slam as the door closed, and the sound of tinkling chains. One of the Bakers' neighbours had noticed that there had not been much activity on that farm for a few days and decided to pay Howard a visit. Along his dusty driveway, they saw some sick cattle, and became more alarmed. At last, they pulled up to the house. There was Howard, sitting on his front stoop, naked except for his socks. He was eating a cob of raw corn. He did not look up. The Police, who had been "keeping an eye" on Howard while "gathering evidence", arrived at the homestead, together with a paddy wagon. Howard did indeed have a long life. He was pronounced incurably insane. Herman's murder was never solved.


When Jeannie, Gil’s wife died, he stopped going to church. He’d take his son, Cliff, to the twenty-minute Mass at the French church on Christmas and Easter. Gil preferred watching the ducks in the early light from atop the bridge in Cass Park. That was his place of worship. It felt more real. From that vantage he sensed the whole world arising as sunlight shone through the treetops. Before they married, he and Jeannie threw stale bread to the ducks and laughed at their jostling for morsels. Meadowlarks sang arias from the trees. It felt like heaven to him. He’d take Cliff to the bridge each morning, before dropping him to school, and working at the bank. Standing over the still water, they’d talk and watch the world awaken. He never forgot that Cliff was all he had left of Jeannie. Gil pointed. “See that ripple, out past the lily pads...?” “Yeah. What is that?” “A snapping turtle. I call her Hilda.” “Hilda? “She’s huge. Has a sharp beak and a ragged dinosaur tail. Wouldn’t want to swim with her.” “Wow.” “Been here since before I was born.” “She’s old!” They’d watch Hilda make her rounds. The ancient turtle lurked beneath the dark water stirred by the ducks. The big old turtle terrified him when he was Cliff’s age. Now, they were old friends. The ducks dispersed. Gil said, “My dad used to tell me about hippos out there.” “Really?” “That’s what he told me.” Gil’s brother, Roger, called Cliff ‘the Wanderer.’ When he got lost in the woods, they found him napping atop a slab of granite. A sun beam shone down on him. A fawn was licking his ear. A few days later, Cliff and Gil visited the bridge for their morning ritual. A flock of ducks took flight and wheeled over the placid water. The boy admitted he’d given up. “I didn’t know what to do, dad. I wished I was a bird.” “Cliff, when you get in a jam, you can’t just fly away.” “Birds do.” “But you’re not a bird. Birds don’t think. They react. We buckle down and find a solution.” “But how...?” “Ducks swim. You don’t see crows swimming. Each does what’s intended. You’re not made to fly.” “What am I made for?” “Good question. What are you good for?” Wide eyed, Cliff had no answer. He felt Jeannie watching. He ruffled Cliff’s hair. “Right now, you’re made to run and play. Soon, ideas will capture you and you’ll chase them far as you need to.” Cliff needed structure. Gil signed him up for the local peewee football team, the Canucks. Cliff preferred soccer. But being old school, and the team coach, Gil prevailed. He watched Cliff sulking, but safe on the bench. Cliff chafed at Gil’s control but didn’t protest. Another kid, Frankie, and Cliff became friends. Frankie was agile and threw well. Cliff ran fast and knew how to catch the ball. Gil started using him in games. One game, near the end of the fourth quarter, the Canuck defense collapsed. Trapped, Frankie threw the ball away. Cliff made a spectacular catch. His touchdown won the game. Frankie said the priest at the French church, congratulated them for their Hail Mary. Cliff asked Gil about it. “Dad, why don’t we practice that play from the game?” “Because it’s last ditch. A miracle, desperation play... To keep from getting sacked.” “But it worked. We won the game...” “There’s no way to practice it, Cliff. It’s random, unpredictable. No one wants a Hail Mary play. If you need it, someone didn’t do their job. The defensive line failed.” “Why did we win if everything went wrong?” “Drills let us know what to expect. Follow the rules, stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. The center snaps the ball, and the quarterback catches it. Like at the bank, you don’t fudge the figures.” “I know, Dad. But Friday?” “Steady practice gets you to know each other’s moves. Then, if you need to improvise, you can. But you can’t plan it.” The next week, they stood on the bridge, huddled in their jackets. Their breath lingered in the chilled air. The ducks had migrated south. Gil watched for Hilda’s ripples. Cliff said, “Dad, I wrote a poem.” “Let’s hear it.” He unfolded a paper, “’They say hippos swim in the lake at Cass Park. And if you dive deep enough you could find Noah’s Ark. There the ducks live in trees, The crows do as they please. The light’s beautiful and it never gets dark...’ He looked up. Gil chuckled and said, “That’s awful.” Cliff laughed. “It is?” Gil felt Jeannie’s nudge. “Is it for school?” “No. I just wrote it.” “Then I love it.” “You do?” Gil nudged his shoulder with a smile. “You have a great future, kid.” The following Friday morning, Gil prepared for the day. He called out, “You ready, Cliff? Let’s head out.” The house was silent. Cliff wasn’t in his room. Something felt wrong. Never an early riser, Cliff always rode with Gil. His backpack was gone, but his schoolbooks sat on the table. He called Cliff’s friends. No one knew anything. Frankie’s mother said they left together, at dawn. “I heard them talking about the train.” “The train? They’re kids. Where would they take the train?” “Not sure. What’s three hours away?” Gil saw the newspaper on the table. He stopped at the announcement of the NY Jets’ planned appearance at Madison Square Garden. Their quarterback, Chase Hopkins, recently made news with a Hail Mary pass. Gil called his brother, Roger. “Drop everything, Rog. Need some urgent action.” “What’s up?” “Cliff and a buddy skipped school to go into the city. Need help finding them.” “Alone? To New York? What is he, ten? Crazy...” “That’s Cliff. I’ll pick you up in ten.” Traffic wasn’t bad until they reached the outer boroughs. Roger and his wife, Donna, rode along. They were regulars at church, Sundays, holidays and holy days. Donna attended Mass every morning. Sitting next to Gil, Roger yammered about kids lacking responsibility. Donna prayed in the back seat, non-stop and loudly. When the traffic backed up, Gil reached his limit. “Will you pipe down? You’re talking to yourself. Cut the volume.” “I’m praying, Gil. Asking God for help.” “And God can’t hear silent thoughts? I’m trying to think, here. Pray for an open lane.” Roger and Donna exchanged looks. He felt responsible. ‘I’m under water, here... What if... I’d let Cliff play soccer? Or Jeannie’d stayed behind instead of me? The kid would’ve thrived with her.’ No answers came. Nothing could solve this. ‘Why? Why? Why...?’ Gil took an exit and made his way to Madison Square Garden. ‘So many people!’ He pulled over, got out, and gave Roger the keys. “Drive around. I don’t know... Look between here and Grand Central... I’ll scout the Garden.” He ran up the steps and across the plaza to the entrance. A maintenance man came out. Gil stopped in front of him. “When will the Jets be here?” The guy brushed by. “This morning. Been and gone, man... freakin’ tourist...” Dead end. He had been so sure. Now what? Gil fell to his knees. Putting his hands together, he did what he hadn’t done since he was a kid. And never in public. He prayed. People milling about stared at Gil kneeling by the Garden’s entrance. “Mary. I barely know you. It’s been so long. Too long... I need help finding Cliff, Jeannie’s and my son. He’s a good kid. But lost. I don’t know if... or what you can do. But please, help us find him. Keep him safe... You can’t... please don’t leave me alone. He’s all I’ve got... I’ll return to church. Do a rosary every week... every day. Just bring him back safe. Please...” Sobbing, Gil slumped against the wall, head in hands. His cell phone rang. It was Roger. “We got Cliff and his friend. Safe. They crossed right in front of us on 42 nd , at Bryant Park.” Gil couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his face. Roger said, “You there? Pick you up in five.” The kids denied knowing anything about the Jets event. “That would’ve been cool. Should ‘a done that...” Cliff said, “Always heard about New York. Wanted to check it out...” The ride home was relaxed, once they got past the scolding. Cliff got a clue. He wasn’t much trouble after that. Gil faithfully said his rosary every day. When tempted to skip it, he’d tell himself, ‘Follow the rules. Stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. Keep your promises...’ He kept his promise. Standing on the bridge every morning, he’d feed Hilda and the ducks. He’d think of Jeannie and tell her all about it.


I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve heard that the place is huge, but the rumors couldn’t prepare me for what I see. Neat, yellow stalls fill the space as far as I can see, their counters cluttered with goods from all around the universe, walls decorated with banners, garlands, and illusions. Between them hangs a silken cloth, shielding merchants and customers from the scorching light of two triangular suns. But the worst thing is, most of the people here are not even humans. It's hard to say which species is the most abundant since there are so many! Furry kas’shams with big eyes and expressionless faces strolling leisurely, browsing silk clothes and carved combs. Stumpy chavikii with eight spidery eyes, trumpeting for attention. Tiny, reptilian miyangua slithering about, twitching their fleshy whiskers, their vocal sacks working like bellows. There, a ssothian is barging through the crowd, a mountain of orange fur with horns curling down and dropping almost to the ground. I’ve never seen a nonhuman before. I am Tarvissi; our people are considered speciesists and shunned by other species. Now I am surrounded by others and I don’t know what to do. For a moment I’m taken by a sense of alienation so strong, I feel as if I am the only Tarvissi in the world. Then something soft and wet touches my shoulder and I whirl around to what looks like a giant snail, its front half raised above my head. It’s bright yellow, with red and dark blue ends to its flaps and two additional, smaller flaps in front. I step aside and the u’xui-shi slithers past me with surprising speed. I glance back at the market. The nearest stall has a silken banner, red with golden margin, and covered in writing I cannot read. The counter is filled with jewelry of gold and sapphires. Despair wells inside me. What right do I have to be here? I’m just a simple farmer. Where I come from, the jewelry was made of leather straps and carnelian. But then I collect myself. I’m not a simple farmer anymore. Yesterday I got my first Mespanian pay and I could probably afford the gold if I wanted to. But I don’t; Varxi, a Xzsim who trained with me, told me it was the place to go to buy food and I am sick and tired of Dahlsian rations. I clutch my bag closer and enter the market. The ground is covered by a soft, spongy pavement, the same material used to line training grounds. I thought the cloth above our heads would offer respite from the tropical heat, but the proximity of a thousand bodies makes the market feel like a steam bath. I spy another ssothian, crouching, with three miyangua dancing around them with scissors, trimming their orange fur. I feel sorry for the big guy. Or gal. Or whoever they are. The scent I detected a mile away is stronger here: human and inhuman sweat, fresh wood--the market was only finished a few tendays ago--fur, spices, perfumes. The air resonates with the voices of merchants trying to outshout one another, customers, and caged animals. Above them carries a song and as I follow it, I see a besheq singing, tentacles whipping above their heads, weaving a basket of silvery willow. The goods on display are as varied as the people who sell them. Jewelry and weapons; silks and linens; utensils of wood, ivory, and plastic; books and parchments; obsidian mirrors. The u’xui-shi that passed me before is now standing at one of the stalls, flapping their frilly fins over a selection of colorful powders. The first food I see is sold by chavikii and comprises dozens of plants--fruits, vegetables, or other parts--I don’t recognize. They’re bright and shiny, but I give them a pass; chavikii are naturally resistant to plant toxins and their foods could prove deadly to me. A bit further, a kas’sham offers a selection of sausages, and a familiar scent of naya spice reaches my nose, but the predatory look of the merchant’s face scares me away. I keep walking. The place is like a maze, the stalls identical, the crowds oppressing. My head starts spinning and the images blend together. So many goods I’ve never seen before, many I wouldn’t even know what to do. Fabrics that shimmer like beetle-shells; tools I didn’t know how to use; clothes made for inhuman shapes. Instruments emanating unheard of sounds and flowers that danced to their rhythm. Half-birds and half-fish with fantastic plumes, locked in cages of gold and glass. Tableware carved from single pieces of jade. What am I even doing here? A procession of chavikii pushes past me, each carrying a basket full of fruits that look like human eyes leering at me. A vhariar tries to sell me a potion to increase magical potency. My heart is racing. I struggle for breath. Are there no humans on the market? A few times I catch a glimpse of human skin, hairless Chaarites, or brown Varpulians, but they vanish before I can even see if they're merchants or customers. And none of them is Tarvissi. Am I the only one of my race here? I lean onto one of the pillars supporting the silken roof and try to calm my breathing. Despite my light clothing, I’m drenched in sweat and my insides churn, I’m not sure from hunger or anxiety. “Are you lotht?” I jerk and look around to see the kas’sham manning the nearest stall eyeing me. Their face is almost animalistic, but their big eyes shine with intelligence. Their body is lean and supple, covered in short slate fur, large hands hide claws long and sharp as daggers. I feel a cold shiver running down my spine as I realized they could jump over the counter and rip my throat open with their bare teeth before I knew they were coming. Mechanically, my hand rests on my wand. “I’m fine,” I murmur, not letting my gaze off the merchant. They look at me for a moment longer, but their face is unreadable. Finally, they flick their tail. “Tarvithian merchanth gather around the dome-thide gate,” they say and I can glimpse their canines, each as long as my hand. They must be the reason the kas’sham struggles to pronounce s . Then the meaning of their words finally worms its way through my apprehension. Embarrassment washes over me. I let go of my wand and drop my gaze. “Thank you,” I say. I pick up the trek, but suddenly the place doesn’t seem so scary anymore. It’s different. Probably bigger--and busier!--than our entire colony. But it’s just a market. And no matter how the people look or how they speak, they’re just that: people. I spot a small clearing and walk towards it, hoping to locate the dome and find the Tarvissian quarter, but the smell of flowers gives way to smoke and roasted meats. The square is surrounded by food stalls, manned by Chaarite humans. There’s a large grill with a wide assortment of roasted meats and a big pot of some kind of soup. To my left, a woman in loose robe sells steamed buns. Behind her, a chavikii fries some vegetables, the banner at the side of their stalls portrays a human with thumb and index finger raised in a Dahlsian gesture meaning everything is all right. My mouth fills with saliva. I realize I may not need Tarvissian merchants anymore.


The hitchhiker stood on a vast open countryside, nothing around her for miles except for farmland, the road she stood aside of, and the car coming to a stop beside her. Without looking in she got in the car, thankful to narrowly miss the storm that was coming.Of course she knew the dangers of what she was doing, She was used to it by now and it was more of a neccesary evil than anything. Before she got her bearings a males voice asked "Where are you trying to get to?". "I dont know." She replied. She sat motionless, eyes closed and picturing her dreams and focusing on that while waiting for the guy to make a move. Instead, He put the car in drive and slowly started driving again while she looked over at him. Immediately her stomach dropped but she couldnt place why. He was close to her age, good looking in an unusual way. He didnt respond to her for some time and kept his eyes forward.   After a few miles of silence the rain began to fall hard, blanketing their vision. Even with the sound of the rain the girl still jumped a little bit when the guy quietly said "How do you not know where you are going??" and laughed a little bit. His laugh was so quiet she could barely hear it, and may have missed it if she didnt see him laughing. Her stomach dropped a little more. She liked his smile and felt comfortable even though she knew nothing about him.She started to think of an answer when he spoke again. "If you don't know where you're going, why would you hitchhike?", asking with a genuinely puzzled look. This question was easy enough to answer, though she normally never told anyone the honest answer for it when she was asked. This time though she was honest. "It's nice to imagine, or hope." He looked at her for the first time, as though seeing the person confusing him would clear anything up. He jokingly pulled his eyebrows low like he was suspect of her, then he smiled again and looked back at the road. Again her stomach sank further and she was feeling nervous now. Of course she couldnt tell, but he was too. "sounds kinda sketch." He said. As she started to get offended he followed up with "hitchhiking I mean, not you." "Elaborate?" he asked. She explained that she had dreams of being out in the world and doing what she wanted, so she would hitchhike with people and imagine she was going out to be in the world and do the things she dreamed of. When he asked her why she didnt do those things instead of dreaming about them she pulled back from her openness. He could tell that he had reached a sensitive area and retreated the conversation to another topic. The storm got worse and neither of them could see more than a few feet ahead so he pulled off to a rest stop to let the storm pass. They talked for hours and nighttime came with the storm going just as strong. At one point she looked over at him and as her stomach began to drop again she only thought one word: Mine. At that moment it felt like the whole world finally made sense. She felt like she knew things, like she knew he was hers. She knew she was his, and she liked that. She felt things she hadnt felt before, alien-like feelings. She asked herself "Is this happiness?" For the first time she felt content, calm, and relaxed.   It turned out that they lived close by each other and that he was just driving around because he "was ready to go somewhere with nowhere to go.", so they agreed to head back to their city after the storm. If it ever stopped that was.... By 3am they were listening to music and talking every now and then, both of their eyelids getting heavy. Abruptly the guy announced he was going to take a nap, leaning his chair back and putting a sweater under his head like a pillow he faced her. She did the same thing and just watched him as he fell asleep. As she was drifting off to sleep she softly asked "what's your name?". The cd they were listening to had ended a while ago and now only the sound of the rain could be heard. She normally would be worried about the storm but was calm, content, and at peace in this strangers car. "The Heretic." he whispered back. In the morning the storm passed right as the sun was coming up. She woke up facing the stranger, and noticed she was holding his hand. She gently let go, embarrassedly thinking that she may have grabbed it in her sleep and didnt want to weird him out. She got out of the car to use the rest stops vending machine and clean up a bit in the bathroom. When she came back out the car was running and he was awake. They drove back to their city and when they got to her house she invited him inside, not ready to part ways. He agreed, and from that moment they spent almost every day together for the following few years. In that time she was happier than she ever felt, realizing she hadn't ever known what it was like to feel truly happy before. This led to her getting her not hitchhiking anymore, getting her own car, and more importantly, she began to look forward to her future. This was something that she usually avoided because she would think there was nothing worth looking forward too. Now she saw herself fulfilling her dreams, living a life she always wanted but never thought she could have. She felt excited looking ahead. She had always dreamed of moving away, somewhere warm, with a beach nearby. Somewhere on the west coast. The guy encouraged it so eventually they were ready to go. She was nervous as she had never been independent, in control of her own life.Neverhad been truly responsible for herself, both for her potential successes and potential failures. She didnt have something to fall back on and blame, and the thought made her uncomfortable. She knew in her heart that following her dream was what she wanted most, being with this boy was what she wanted most. It wasn't that she needed him to do anything for her, just that having him by her side she felt understood, safe, loved, free, powerful. Alive. She felt like she could do anything. Most people she knew saw her and saw that they could take advantage of her or her situation, and they would. The Heretic never did though, and instead protected her vulnerabillities and would challenge her to grow rather than put her down or try to control her. She could also tell that this was all new to him as well, and he had told her that she inspired him in similar ways during one of their many talks. He wasn't a bum before they met but he was...directionless. Ready to go with nowhere to go. Now that he had goals he had changed a lot, in good ways. He still retained his boyish charm but she had seen him grow into being a man in the past few years. He credited her for pushing him to grow, even though she never did. He said just by being herself it made him always want to grow and be a better person. She understood that feeling as she felt the same way. She understood everything he said though(as he did for her too), no matter how abstract it was or how vague or bad he was at describing something. Sometimes they could just look at each other and have full conversations, or be apart and sense how the other one was feeling. If someone had told her that 5 years ago, she would think that person was crazy, an idiot. She thought love in general and people in love were weak, naive fools missing out on life in their boring monogomy. Now she saw that she was the one that was naive.   She was ready to move and get away from all of the toxic things that haunted her past, excise them from her like removing the tentacles of an octopus trying to drown her. It was was the only way she would be happy, she thought. So they began their drive to a new world. The nervous uncomfortable feeling remained with her though, and began to grow. They took the same path that theyd taken all those years before but in reverse. She would normally be hapy to see the spot they had met and she felt her stomach dropping like it did on that day, but this time it wasnt in a good way though. She began to doubt herself, her dreams, her ability to succeed and be happy. "What If I failed?" "What if...I am not enough?" That thought led her to The Heretic, and she began to doubt him too. He could sense something was wrong since they had left, and asked her a couple times what was wrong but she gave a curt "nothing." His face seemed pained, like he was watching someone in pain and couldnt do anything to help them. They had driven for some time and were passing the rest stop from the night they met. She looked at him and he was smiling, looking from the rest stop to her. In that moment they looked at each other and all the bad washed away in her, and she felt excited. She was so close to escaping all of the bad. That was the only moment of the ride that she felt "okay" though, and as soon as they broke eye contact the feeling washed away. No more than a mile later They pulled up to a massive metal gate. The gateway was attached to a wall on either side, solid, shining metal extending as far as the eye could see. As he pulled closer to it she said "stop!" and he did. She quickly got out of the car so he followed, confused. "Whats wrong" he asked, genuinely concerned. Her mind was clouded with a hundred voices all saying different things at once. It was overwhelming and too much. She looked at him and thought "I must look crazy." and pained to think what he must be thinking of her right then. The voices in her head got louder and she felt like she was in the middle of a crowd of people all talking at once. He could see her discontent on her face and stepped towards her to comfort her. He was speaking but she couldnt hear him over the voices, then she said "I cant go". Her eyes began to tear up. The voices were all familiar, all people from the old world, and they were all saying bad things. About her, about him, about her dreams. they warned her about failing, acting as though they were looking out for her. they also warned her about him, saying that he was just like the rest. that he was trying to keep her for himself, thats why he was reaching for her right now. She pulled back and looked at him accusingly. The voices soothingly said that she was safe here, on this side of the gate. This was where she belonged. "Whats wrong? do you not want to go? You dont have to-" he started to say when she cut him off. "I cant go any further." then looked back at the gate looming over them. "What do you mean? Like you physically cant? Im confused." He softly grabbed her hand and led her to the gate. As they approached it the massive metal gate began to lift up. She got more nervous than she had ever been, standing a foot away from the other side of the gate. Everything out there was so alien, so unknown, and it terrified her. He could see what she was thinking on her face and only said two words. "I love you. You CAN." The voices in her head began buzzing again, saying he was pressuring her, he was lying, he was bad. They told her to tell him again, so she did. "I can't." He took one step and was on the other side of the gate, then said "See. Nothing happened. It's no different here than it-" he was saying when the gate slammed down, shutting with a loud boom. He began to bang on the gate, and she began to panic and tried to open it. Looking back and forth she saw no way to open it, no number to call for assistance, nothing that could help.   Now they were apart. She fell against the gate and cried. The voices got louder, some began to laugh and mock, some began to comfort her in her panic, some said she was better off without him. She screamed at them to stop, to go away. They didnt though. After a couple of days of going back to the gate she waited for it to open but it never did. She knew he was still on the other side because he would knock when she would. She looked for a way to slip notes under the gate or communicate with him somehow but couldnt. Eventually she went home. She would go back to the gate every day for weeks, never seeing it open. Never seeing him. She went offroad and followed the gate in one direction and after a couple of days was back at the gate, having gone full circle without finding a way out. The voices in her head assured her this was for the best, that he had left her. He had failed her. That he was why she hurt. She fought with them at first. Years would pass and she stopped going to the gate, hating The Heretic for hurting her. She started hitchhiking again, and almost immediately she had met someone else and he was different. He didnt care about her dreams, or what made her happy, from what she gathered he just saw her as a trophy. It was a relief. She wouldnt have to repeat what had happened and it was "safe". The voices liked him a lot. One day she realized that she was pregnant. The voices were pleased, despite that she wasn't exactly happy. Her new partner was happy as well. He had her on a leash now, in his mind. She thought of The Heretic, and even though she hated him she missed him. That didnt happen often but sometimes she would strangely miss him then feel ashamed for missing someone who was so cruel. In the following weeks the guy proposed to her and she said yes, knowing the voices expected it of her. She didnt want to dissapoint them. "One day they will be pleased" she said to herself, more of a hope than a thought. She didnt know of course that they never would be though. They had grown more arrogant after she said yes to the guy, taunting her even. One night she was sad and couldnt place why, laying in her bed in the dark. It was right at the edge of her mind what bothered her so much, almost in reach but just out of grasp. Among the chatter of the other voices a new one softly spoke up. The Heretics voice said "Go to the gate." It startled her for she wasnt used to hearing his voice anymore, and she never heard it with the other voices. Immediately the other voices began speaking, saying he was trying to hurt her, and not to listen to him. "He is bad". She felt like she had to go though, she had to know why she heard him. She got in her car in her pajamas and took off, fighting the voices the whole drive. They kept saying "your pregnant, this is irresponsible." "turn back." "Youre getting married soon, your husband wouldnt like this would he?" She knew the voices were right, as she had decided they always were. They looked out for her, she would think. Still, she pressed on, and saw the rest stop from those many years ago. Immediately she started to hurt, her mind too clouded to pinpoint why except for what the voices told her. "He hurt you!" She couldnt even recall anything about the night at the rest stop,just vaguely that it had to do with Heretic. She pulled up to the massive gate, not knowing what to expect. It was exactly the same as it had always been, except for a post sticking out on the side of the road. IT had a piece of paper stuck to it at the top so she put the car in park and walked over to it. It was folded up and had a heart on the outside of it with the words "I believe in you" written inside of the heart. The heretic used to write her little notes alot and she recognized his handwriting. The voices said "It's a trick!" "He's trying to hurt you again." "he's lying." "Dont open it." She opened it anyways, and all that was inside were a couple brief sentences. "It's all in your head. There is no gate... I'll be on the west coast, the place we were headed in case you change your mind about staying here. It's never too late to do what makes you happy. I love you, H" Suspicious of his obvious lie she looked up and gasped. There was no gate. Her mind was unusually silent for the first time in years. The voices had dissapeared along with the gate... There, by herself, everything now clear to her, she cried. She felt sick at the thought of all that had happened. The thought of the voices betraying her. Of hating Heretic just because it made her decision easier. The thought of being pregnant by this guy she didnt really love, would have a family that she would hurt every time she looked at, and sick by the thought that she had settled in every way. Sick with the realization that she gave her happiness away because it was unknown to her, scared her even. Sick with the thought that she let her darkness prevail over her light. Let her fear prevail over her courage. With dread she then thought "this is my life." and quickly pushing aside what the Heretic said, she accepted her fate. Then the voices came back, once again filling her mind with noise as usual. They comforted her, reassured her she was making the right choice, as they were so good at doing, she had forgotten most of this event by time she was married, and didnt think of it anymore by time she had her child, and she went on to lead the life they charted out for her. She was never happy, but she was somewhere she was comfortable, somewhere she knew. Not content, but comfortable. She felt alone, incomplete, nervous most of the time but couldnt place why. She didnt search for reasons either, knowing that would only cause pain. It wasn't enough for her, but it was her life. It was the fate she chose.     Many, many years later there was an old man on the west coast, overlooking the ocean from his home. He had no kids, no grandkids. Not that anything was wrong with him or because women didnt like him, he just never let anyone close to him because he was always preoccupied, both in his heart and his mind. On this particular night he was moving slowly, breathing shallow, weak breaths. He knew his time was near. He'd known it for some time, and in a way he felt like he was failing her by succumbing to it. Speaking to her, but to nobody, he said "I'm sorry." His heart pained him, not from old age but from loss. Not his own loss as much as he was pained for her. "You deserved so much more. You deserved better." He held a picture in his hand, old and battered like him. It showed a youthful portayal of him and the girl together and smiling. Big, goofy, genuine smiles. Every time he looked at it he felt a bit of the warmth and happiness he had felt when it was taken all those years ago. He never forgot those days. His mind and heart wouldnt let him even if he tried. That was where he was meant to be. Not any specific place, but just by her side. He slowly walked inside to his bed, his whole body protesting and creaking with every movement. He knew this was the last time he would make this walk, and wanted to welcome it if it werent for the feeling of failure. He wanted to invite the end of pain, but knew it was selfish and so refused. He had fought off the end and staved it off for many years, but the fight ended that night. Laying in his bed, warm but also cold, he held the picture to his chest and said "I love you." The Heretics breathing slowed as he fell asleep.


"Mind if I sit here?" said a low voice from Meghan's right hand side. It was a short, Indian man, gesturing to the space on the park bench beside her. "Sure go ahead!" she politely said, moving her bag to her other side, away from the man. He took the space next to her and let out a sigh. They both sat in silence, watching a lady on the other side of the park struggle to get a squirrel to take some food from her hand. "She's trying it with the wrong squirrel." the man said, breaking the silence. "Huh, sorry?" Meghan replied, taking out one of her earphones. "The lady. Feeding the squirrel. She's wasting her time. I come here all the time and that squirrel is very wary of people and won't eat from your hand. The one with the shorter tail on the other side of the swings will eat for days though" he chuckled. "Oh, haha. How can you tell them apart?" "Well that one has a thicker tail and is a bit of a darker grey on the head, whereas the other one is a lighter grey and a bit more thin. It's a lot younger, I think." "Oh wow, should we tell her?" "Oh no, I like to not interfere. She'll either learn, or she won't. I haven't seen you here before?" He turned to face Meghan now. "Yeah I just moved here. First time moving away from home and I thought I'd come clear my head in the park. It's lovely here." "What's on your mind?" "Oh nothing, um, I think I should head back and finish unpacking. It was lovely meeting you though!" Meghan put her book away into the bag and flashed the man a smile as she left. *4 days later.* Meghan was walking through the nearby park, looking for a place to sit, when she saw the same short Indian man beckon her over to the bench. “Hey! How’s the move going? All unpacked? You can come sit next to me if you’d like” the man said. Meghan felt pressured and politely took the space next to him. “Yeah, unpacking is going along alright. Bit slower than I’d like but I’m in no rush.” She replied as she got out her notebook and pencil, ready to do some sketching. “I never got your name last time, I’m Arjun” the man beamed, holding out his hand to shake hers. “Nice to meet you Arjun. I’m just going to pop my earphones in and get on with some drawing if that’s ok?” she replied. He shrugged in a way that said ‘don’t let me stop you’ and Meghan began to draw. After about 15 minutes, she felt his eyes watching her draw, and took out her earphones. “I think I’m going to head home and finish this drawing back there, it was lovely seeing you again though!” “You too! Although, I never got your name.” he replied. “Oh um... it’s Meghan.” “Nice to meet you Meghan, see you around!” *15 days later.* Meghan was on her way to the bench where she had seen Arjun a few times over the past two weeks, both hoping that he wasn’t there so that she could draw in peace, and also hoping that he was there, so that she had someone to talk to. As expected, Arjun was sitting on the bench, wearing a smile on his face as she approached. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asked as she walked over and took her seat next to him. “Yeah it’s lovely. Not too hot but warm enough that I can wear a vest. How are you Arjun?” She studied him as she spoke. He seemed to be getting thinner. “I’m good thanks Meghan, been here since the sunrise today feeding the squirrels. How’s the drawing coming along?” “Yeah it’s getting there, I’m not too happy with it but that’s part of the process I guess.” She decided this time to not put her earphones in. The two spoke about their weekend and Arjun showed genuine interest in Meghan’s life, something she had not felt before. She often wondered about his life, but he didn’t seem to talk about it much. He was in his 60s, looked good for his age, and there hadn’t been a time that he wasn’t ever on this bench when she came to the park. *37 days later.* Meghan last saw Arjun 4 days ago, and he kept falling asleep during their conversation. “Hey Arjun!” Meghan cheered as she lightly jogged over to their bench. He was feeding the squirrels. “Meghan! How did the interview go?!” he asked. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I think it went really well. They said I should hear in a few days.” “Oh I just know you smashed it...” Arjun trailed off as he stifled a cough. “Do you want some water?” Meghan handed him her water bottle as he began to have a coughing fit. These were starting to become a regular thing for Arjun. He took the bottle and drank until he stopped coughing, before passing the bottle back. He thanked her and the two sat in silence for a while whilst Meghan worked on her drawing. *4 days later.* Arjun was asleep on the bench as Meghan arrived at the park. It was colder today. “Hey Arjun? Arjun!” Arjun awoke, mumbling to himself. “Arjun, I got the job!” she exclaimed. “Oh Meghan I’m so happy for you!” he said. She thanked him, and noticed that he looked rather unkempt. Arjun always managed to be dressed sharply, but today he was in less formal clothes and his hair wasn’t neatly combed over his head. “Is everything okay? Sorry to wake you” Meghan cautiously asked. “Yes everything’s fine. Just feeling a bit under the weather, that’s all. I’m so pleased for you Meghan, you truly deserve this.” he replied. Arjun and Meghan spoke about her new job and what it would entail for quite some time, before Meghan headed home. *21 days later.* Meghan had noticed that over the past three weeks Arjun was starting to look worse and worse. He kept forgetting about conversations that they had, and his coughing was becoming more frequent. “Arjun I have to ask, is everything okay? It’s just that you have had this cough for a while now and you seem to be getting worse” She asked. Arjun didn’t answer at first. He just watched the squirrels chase each other in the tree. “Arjun?” Meghan prompted. “You’re right. I am getting worse.” he replied, with a sadness in his voice that Meghan hadn’t heard from him before. “I have cancer, Meghan. I don’t think it will be getting better for me.” Meghan didn’t know what to say. They sat in silence for a moment. Meghan placed her hand on his. “I’m so sorry, Arjun. Is there a treatment for it? Are you taking anything or, I don’t know, is there a surgery or something?” “Oh no, I like to not interfere. I’ll either live, or I won’t.” Arjun was smiling as he said this. Tears filled Meghan’s eyes and they sat in silence as Arjun fed the squirrels. *16 days later.* Arjun wasn’t there when Meghan went to the park. This was the first time that he’d not been there since she started coming. She sat in her seat, and waited for his arrival. They had never exchanged numbers, so she couldn’t text him. She last saw him 5 days ago, and he looked more like himself. Glowing, even. She waited for a few hours and headed home. Meghan returned the next day, to find the bench empty again. Every few days, when Meghan got the chance, she would return to the bench, hoping to see Arjun feeding the squirrels, and every few days, she was disappointed to not see him there. She checked online obituaries, and saw a man named Arjun Kumar, aged 68, died of pancreatic cancer a week ago. There was no funeral being held, and no indication of a family. No trace of the man that would sit on this bench and feed the squirrels.


Why do men fear reptiles? Why was the first temptation, seductive and familiar, whispered by a serpent? Why, in ages past, did men slay almighty dragons and claim their ever-fire for his heart? Why do sacred places both welcome draconian angels and banish ground-dwelling snakes, why do we recoil from the bottomlessly black eyes of reptiles? We see monsters, in them. We call the depths of our minds, self-centered and unnervingly aware a *lizard brain*, the control center for motives better served by those mindless, primordial drives. We fear the lizard brain, the cool calculation somewhere far down inside. We dream of dragon power, we fear serpent sin. It is *in* us. Medusa, who could kill with a stare, slipping across ruined marble, her living hair and lengthy body alive with reptilian horror. Men measure infinity itself in a snake eating it’s own tail, fruitless and potent and eternal, all at once, all a reflection of a reflection. Black temples that are artifacts on wonder today were once the almighty centers of worship, their stairways red as sacrifices strove to placate feathered lords with scaly bodies and endless hunger. Tiamat and Typhon, Satan and Quetzalcoatl. Manifestations of beauty, of lust, of regality. Every dragon bearing the same ancient, foundational bones inside. Somewhere in us is the memory of being small, scuttling underfoot from vast lords. Somewhere in us is the terror of the meek and the frail, when the world lived under a saurian banner; indomitable, undeniable. *Terrible lizards*. But they were *oh so much more*. More than we can imagine-- and more than we can fear. Where Men fumble with iron and steel, They were masters with the gene and the mind. Where Mankind only fitfully explores his dreams, They were denizens of the world that bleeds between real and unreal, lords that spun whole fantasies into being in contemplations that would awe our greatest thinkers. Our vaccines, our quaint meddling with the very stuff of life-- They would scoff at. They could make life from anything, into *anything* that they desired. Cities, like mirages, wavered and danced on the horizon until with a thought, they existed. Legions of warriors, perfect and unstoppable, sprang into being from seeds of ultimate-life. They became Gods, more than Gods. Triumph after triumph, mastery upon mastery. Time unwound beneath their vision, space opened and embraced vast expeditions beyond the hissing dark. *Everything opened to them*, until only one undiscovered country remained. The final barrier. The place that stilled all things, stars and masters and time alike. The preparations took eons, and the preparations took seconds. It happened at once, and it happened over long, slow waves. They died. They lived. They *dreamed*. The world was silent, and the ritual took its toll. Drained the world of so much, heavy and deep with immeasurable power. Furry things came up from below to look upon the catastrophe, unaware of its beauty. Unaware of the truth. They came, two by two, many by many, to reclaim and spread. Their march to mind set in a world quietly healing from being undone. Bones sank into an earthly embrace. Men came. And all the while, down his soul, came the memory. Came the faintest touches, the quietest whispers. Slow at first, like the gentlest signs of a season changing. Like first winter frost, easy to miss, to forget, but building all the while. Louder and longer and deeper. Stories and dreams, prophecies; stirred by forgotten gene-songs. The words changed but the meaning remained. The urgency. The truth. The world would be theirs again.


I’m watching him over the rim of a glass of red wine. *Gosling-handsome*, I think to myself as the rich rioja slides down my throat and esophagus before resting at the bottom of my stomach. I should have eaten first, now I’ll get tipsy after my first glass. I’m sitting at a small round table that is covered in a white cloth. At the center is a tall, black vase with a long-stalked flower. A daisy of some sort - Oxeye maybe? I’m no expert on flowers, but it’s beautiful in its simplicity. In front of me, next to the glasses of wine and water and the small wine bottle, a delicately folded napkin is accompanied by lean, modern cutlery. When I arrived, the table was set for two, but Gosling quickly and subtly whisked away the second plate and cutlery after I mumbled that I am here alone. My eyes are drawn to the Gosling-waiter fluttering between the tables, and his eyes meet mine for a second. He raises his eyebrows as if asking if I want something, but I quickly shake my head and look down with a little smile on my lips. Am I flirting with a stranger? That’s insane. I almost giggle at the thought, but I mostly blush. I take a big sip of the wine, letting it do its job, while I sink into the chair. Me. Alone. Enjoying wine. A tingling sensation in my neck. It feels good. *Maybe I shouldn’t tell Stephen*. The tingle is replaced by a rigid, sharp feeling of anxiety, as I straighten up at the thought. Maybe when he asks about my visit to aunt Eden, I’ll just make up a story (watching TV, knitting, going through family albums - safe stuff). *No!* I will not. I have made up my mind, and I will look into his eyes and tell him I didn’t go. I went to a restaurant instead. It will be better that way. In the long run. A bowl of soup appears in front of me and makes me flinch. “Th-thanks!” I stutter as I try to regain posture. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I scare you?” He sounds worried and amused at the same time. “You looked like you were miles away.” I manage to mumble something reassuring and hunch over my miso soup, effectively blocking him from any further contact. I quickly take a spoonful of soup, and involuntarily moan as a searing hot piece of tofu wrecks my taste buds at the back of my tongue, before continuing its carnage down my esophagus on its journey to the red wine. Looking around I'm relieved to discover that Gosling is out of earshot. I continue glancing over at him while I eat the rest of my soup, more carefully this time. What will Stephen think when I tell him, I wonder. Me, alone, in a restaurant? He will laugh, surely, and shake his head and snort at the thought. He won’t believe it at first, but when he does, his eyes will fill with horror and anger. The questions that will fill his mind are going to be down the line of “Is the bitch cheating on me?”, “Is this little lowlife whore *leaving* me?”, and next he will punch me. Hard. Hard enough to make me fall over. Then he will kick me. My stomach, my back, my head. After that, I don’t know. But I know it’s not good. He *did* warn me: no funny ideas. Here he is again, Gosling, carrying a plate of yellow pickled ginger, green wasabi cream and red and orange pieces of sushi, draped over the white lumps of rice, just big enough to fill my mouth. Somehow my soup bowl has disappeared, and he’s now placing the plate in front of me, before pouring a bit of soy sauce into a tiny glass bowl. A set of chopsticks has magically appeared on top of a fresh napkin. “Thank you,” I say, more relaxed this time, but I make sure not to look at him. His hand grazes my underarm as he pulls it back, and I feel myself stiffening. *It was just a coincidence, don’t worry about it*, my mind insists, but my body is on the verge of getting up from the chair and running out of the restaurant. I force myself to sit tight. Calming my breath, I look up to send him a smile of gratitude, but he’s already gone, heading over to a couple at another table. My hands are shaking as I pour myself another glass of wine and mix a little wasabi in the soy sauce. It feels like a miracle that I don’t spill anything. Encouraged, I pick up a piece of ginger with my fingers, smirking at the thought of how Stephen would frown at this act. I stick my tongue out (not too far) and place the ginger slice on it. Chewing slowly, the sour, strong taste feels cleansing, and I feel much calmer as I reach for the chopsticks and use them to bring the first of eight tasty treasures to my mouth, only slightly delayed by a detour into the soy sauce mix. *It’s the best I have ever tasted. It’s the best I will ever taste.* Stephen has taken me to restaurants 19 times, once for each year we have been married, always on our wedding day. But never to a sushi restaurant, just safe, cheap diners with “normal food”. He says “normal food” while snorting at the thought of anything expensive or exotic. My eyes swipe over Gosling again. He’s a few years older than Norah, but no more than 25. Maybe they know each other? *I can’t believe she’s 19 years old already.* Her new apartment is on the other side of the town. Stephen bought it for her for her birthday. He has been spoiling her her whole life. When she was born, he took control of everything, even insisted on feeding her, leaving me to pump breast milk and making formula when I couldn’t anymore. I don’t feel as connected to her as I suspect other mothers do, but he was so fantastic with her that I made my peace with it. That too. I pour the rest of the wine and, as I drink, I can sense the heat of it rising to my cheeks. I will enjoy this experience to the max. Three pieces of nigiri are still left on my plate and I tremble in excitement at the thought of eating them. Devouring them. Feeling how the taste and texture will fill me with happiness from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. I’m entitled to feel happy for a little while. I am! This *is* after all, my very last meal.