The door closes on its own. Uma thinks nothing of it. Sometimes with the way the air flows in her house, the doors and curtains have a tendency to move about. It takes her a moment to jiggle with the doorknob- to get it to properly open again- but it’s a small annoyance. She probably just needs to check the lock, maybe the hinges. It’s a new house- well, a new house for her. She’s barely been moved in for just over a month now, and it was sold to her at an insanely cheap price. She figured there would be some issues (and had honestly been worried there’d been big matters she wasn’t told about), but so far, all she had found were slight irritations. The stairs creaking a little too much for her liking, the way the kitchen drawers all seemed on the verge of breaking- it was all just so... quiet. A small hinderance in a rotting structure. If a house could be dead, this might as well be it. The silence of it was almost deafening- a still skeleton that managed to function as its own grave. Nothing however, was quite as tiresome as that door. Uma liked to relax before bed; she’d make herself a small cup of tea, and watch an episode of some show she didn’t care for on her laptop, already curled up under her covers, halfway drifting off.... ...but then the door SLAMS and she’s startled upwards in an instant, spilling hot tea not only over herself, but her bed. “Fuck!” The word leaves her mouth before she’s really even aware of what’s happened. She looks around, trying to see what fell, what could’ve caused the noise- and when she comes up with nothing, she decides to look in the hallway. Except, her door is closed. A sigh. Irritant. Hinderance. Frustration. She jiggles the doorknob a couple of times, becoming increasingly upset when it wouldn’t open. She’s really got to get that lock checked. She’s about to take her mug to it (although she knows brute force and a broken mug won’t help), when she hears a soft click. The door slowly swings open, like someone had pulled it back with a string. How... unsettling. Uma slowly lowered her arm, but kept her grip on the mug firm- walking out of her room into the hallway. She looked around, seeing nothing. She figured that was the case. In fact, she knew by now, it was the door. The stairs creaked as she worked her way down them quickly, grabbing her old dining room chair. It was falling apart, just like the rest of the house- but for its new and temporary purpose, it’d do. She carries it back up with surprisingly minimal struggle, dragging the splintered wooden chair down the hall until she reached her bedroom again, wedging it under the doorknob. That didn’t stop Uma from collecting her things, though; she’d decided on spending the night on the couch as soon as she figured the door was a fire hazard. She grabbed a change of clothes, her pillow, her laptop, and a throw blanket that had narrowly avoided the tea spill. She’d clean it up in the morning. Uma was not a particularly religious or spiritual person. She wasn’t even one to be scared by small things easily- but the one incident had scared her off enough from sleeping in her own room- or really even entering it- until someone came to look at the lock of her door. “It’s fine,” The handyman had commented, “You said it was locking randomly?” “For minutes. I couldn’t get it to open,” Uma confirmed. She leaned against the hallway wall, opposite of the man crouching down in the middle of the doorway. She imagines the door closing on him. What would that look like? Would he sprain a finger? Can you sprain a finger? Would he get knocked on his ass? “That’s weird. Maybe it’s a hinge issue?” The man didn’t seem to believe himself, stupefied by the case of Uma’s irritating door. He turns in place, still crouching as he tests the door’s movement, swinging it back-and-forth slowly, watching. Listening - but there was nothing to hear. No squeaky hinge, no creak of the weight of the wood. It was a perfectly fine door. He’s about to tell her nothing’s wrong again , but before he can speak, Uma beats him to it; “Can you replace them all anyway?” She asks, “I’ll pay extra.” He looks up at her with an unreadable expression, but then shrugs, “Your money, man.” So the lock gets replaced. And the hinges. And the doorknob. One could say the door’s undergone a kind of makeover. It’s the nicest looking thing in the house. Uma’s been meaning to actually furnish the house, to make it feel lived in- but it just feels wrong, she can’t explain it. It would be like watering a carcass. The door closes again when she’s about to enter her bedroom coming home from work. She sleeps on the couch that night, still in her office clothes. At some point, Uma tries to move out of the room, but the door won’t let her. It closes every time she tries to move a big piece of furniture out, at one point closing so forcefully on her mattress that the mattress itself had torn. So, unfortunately, Uma is stuck in the stupid room, with the stupid, sentient door. She calls the handyman again. Asks him to take it down. He comes again and asks her why she won’t just do it herself- and Uma doesn’t want to tell him she’s using him as a human guinea pig. If it could tear a mattress, she wants to know what it can do to a man. The answer? Slam itself on his hand so badly that it breaks, and bone pokes through flabby flesh and thin viscera. The nearest hospital is twenty miles away, so Uma drives him there. No one believes her when she tells them a door slammed on his hand. Even when he tells them the same thing. If the door believes she’s moving too many things out, it’ll close on her. She speaks out-loud to it, like it’s a living thing , something one can talk to. Uma wonders briefly if she’s going insane. “I need to do laundry,” She tells the door, it having slammed closed way too close to Uma for her personal liking, “Are you going to stop me from cleaning my clothes? Is that what you’re doing now?” She’s arguing with a door , how nonsensical can this get? The door stays closed for another two hours, and for one of those hours, Uma stands firmly in front of it, tapping her finger against her laundry basket- like a mother would in front of a defiant child. She can’t send a door to bed, however, so she ultimately gave up the stand-off. If anything, it felt like she had been the one sent to bed- like the door had somehow asserted some authority over her she’d previously resisted, and the extra hour had just been a waiting game; the old wood making sure Uma had learned her lesson. She hadn’t learned the lesson the door had intended (if there was a lesson for a door to intend), but she had learned . Uma needed to be clever when it came to escaping her bedroom entrance. Her plan spanned over weeks. She’d stuff an extra shirt into her bag when she left for work. An extra book. She’d keep up with her daily routine, visit her in-house office, set them carefully on the desk or shelf. This door never randomly opened, never randomly closed. The room, in its dead silence, was oddly comforting. Most people were terrified of the dark. Uma had wondered if anyone had ever tried to escape their own house before? Really she should think about moving out. She’s already taken out a loan, though, and more than that, she’s stubborn. She’d rather take down that damn door with an ax. (She had tried by the way. It’d left some gashes, but impossibly, never even went fully through the wood. Now there’s ugly scratches on the front of her bedroom door.) Moving out or not, it doesn’t matter now... ...Because eventually, the door catches on. Uma’s in the middle of leaving for work, a pair of pants and a shirt in her purse, nonchalantly passing through the doorway- -then, she’s screaming , her arm lodged between the door and it’s corresponding frame. It had violently swung on her before she had time to react, capturing her arm in the process. It wasn’t hard enough to break her arm- not like the handyman, no- but enough to pierce skin with splintered wood, flesh twisting and turning uncomfortably as her body tried to accommodate the foreign object squeezing her limb from both sides. “Fuck, FUCK! ” Uma cried, breathing ragged as she tried to pull her arm out. It made it so much worse. The door only dug in deeper, the woman screeching even louder as she could feel the pressure against her bone now. How, she briefly wondered, was this even possible ? Hinges don’t possess that much power. It doesn’t matter, she has to stop pulling. She pushes instead, the door giving away all too easily as she falls forward on the very arm she was trying to avoid injuring further- Uma letting out a pained wail as she rolled over. Gasping as she tried to just catch her breath. The door slammed shut. “Let me out.” Anxious, disbelieving. “Let me out! ” Anger. Uma jiggled the doorknob like she had the first time the door closed on her. Of course it didn’t work. She pounded on the door with her good hand curled up in a fist, then tried to force her whole body weight against it. The damned thing had eventually retaliated, quickly slamming open, and then closing again- effectively ramming her into the wall. The woman stayed on the floor for what felt like hours. She didn’t dare move, not so close to the thing . That’s all it was now to her. A thing. That’s all it was supposed to be to her! Hell, what door is not just a thing! To even call it ‘damned’ gives it personality, and Uma refuses to give it anything more than an appliance’s description. It’s a door. It should open when pulled open, and close when pushed closed. It’s a goddamn door. Uma will spend all day convincing herself of this if she has to. Everything hurt . Her pain meds were downstairs. She could hear her phone ring. It was probably her work calling, asking her why she wasn’t there yet. “Answer it,” She told nothing, “You can move can’t you? Answer the goddamn phone.” That phone was her only hope of getting help, and it had fallen on the other side of the thing with her purse. “Answer it!” Uma’s angry again, scratching at the door with her nails, screaming. Then she tries to pull the door open by resting her feet on either side of the door frame and pulling on the knob with all of her body weight. Her arm has effectively stained her blouse, pants, and now, the floor- but she doesn’t care anymore. Eventually the phone stops ringing. She resorts to screaming at the thing, throwing anything she could at it- scratching into it with shards of glass from her broken lamp when throwing it didn’t work. Nothing works. Night finally falls, and Uma falls with it, having exhausted herself. She’s thrown every item, insult, and tactic she could think of at the door- the slab of wood now carved with her hatred and despise of it- but none of it mattered. It didn’t fucking matter. The door was as still as it had been when she first moved in. Taunting . Like she’d imagined it all. Uma’s not sure how many days she’s spent in her room. It’s not her room anymore- or at least, she doesn’t consider it so. The things in it may be hers, as broken and ripped apart as they may be, torn and scattered across the floor. She fashioned a bandage out of an old tank top. Busied herself with reading. Read all the books. Reread them. Thought about how hungry she was. Distracted herself from her hunger. It couldn’t have been longer than three days, she reasoned. A human can only go three days without water. ...but it had felt like so much longer . Uma turns in for the night, shoes still on as she collapses into her bed, because there’s too much broken glass for her to safely move around her room barefoot anymore. She’s bundled up in layers, to warm up and prevent making her injuries worse. Her stomach growls, but she’s learned to force herself to ignore it. She manages to finally fall asleep, arms crossed, and hunched over on her side- like she could spring up at any moment, just in case. While she’s sleeping, the house sleeps with her- although it’s never particularly been awake. Except of course, one of its components. A small, slow creaking can be heard- but Uma is too deep in sleep to hear it. The door opens on its own.


“I lerve you! I do!” “Say what?” Where can you be and still know that someone cares? Time stretches out, and everything is a joke. You think you know what everyone knows until you don’t. And it isn’t so hard. To know what I know... “Do you want that cigarette or not?” It’s all lerve, don’t you know? Sure, I’ll take that cigarette. And everything else I can. Because it doesn’t matter whether I smoke or not, I’ll smoke if you want me to. “Do you need a light?” I’m always in the light. It shines all over me. I hardly know anything different. People say different. But they don’t talk to me. They’re talking to themselves. “Pretty cold tonight, isn’t it?” It was cold when I was born. It's been cold all my life. But I’m not complaining. Used to it. A useful idiot, that’s what someone called me after he took everything that I had. Everything that mattered. My mom’s picture, my dad’s picture. My money, too. “We'll see ya!” And you wouldn’t want to be ya! If you only knew. # “911 Emergency! What is your emergency?” “There’s this guy. Slumped over on the sidewalk. It’s too cold for people to be sleeping outside. Can someone get over to....” “You’re breaking up. Where are you? This is 911 Emergency. Say again?” “...battery...” “He hung up!” the operator said to her supervisor. “Try calling him back.” “Already on it...It went to voicemail.” “Alright, CAD direct to police and follow up with a phone call. “Will do.” # It’s way too late, nearly one in the morning. I’m such a fool. I have to work tomorrow. So I exited the bar where I was at. And around the corner from the bar, I see him--the same guy from before. I tried to call 911, but my phone was dead. Now, what do I do? “C’mon man, get up!” My hands are freezing. And I’m not wearing a winter jacket. There’s no one around. Anyone out there would be rushing to their cars, which I don’t have. A car, that is. It's back home in the underground parking lot. “C’mon! Get up! You can’t stay here! It’s freezing!” Where are the police when you need them? Are there no doughnut shops handy? I go to the corner and just catch sight of another man coming out of the bar. “Hey, can you give me a hand?” I shout. There couldn’t be more than twenty feet between us. He shakes his head and rushes off. Not wearing a winter jacket either. Too bad he wasn’t coming out of a church! Maybe someone like that would give me a hand! What if I help this guy, and he dies on me? Then, I’ll be sued or be charged with a crime. I think to myself. Go back to the bar, idiot. Call from there. The door to the bar is locked. Bang on the door. I see the bartender behind the bar through the door window, shaking his head. I bang some more. He comes to the door. “We’re closed!” he shouts through the door. “There’s this guy, he needs help!” The bartender frowned and then opened the door. I can smell beer on him, and the bar is so warm. I want to go in to warm up myself! “This guy is around the corner! He’ll freeze to death!” I practically shout as the bartender steps out onto the sidewalk and looks around. “What guy? Just get home! Walk it off, will ya!” He slams the door. # This guy was yelling at me. But I play dead . Been practicing that a lot. Some day, I will die. But that’s cool. It sure is cold, though. Now, here he comes again. Why don’t he leave? I’m fine. “Get up! We gotta go!” he says. I’m cool with it. I get up and dance around a bit. He’s all surprised. Takes me by the arm. We’re walking down a street I never been before. Lived here all my life, never saw this place. Some swanky apartment he has! Like there should be a doorman or something. Up the elevator, 23 rd floor. My my, so high this boy. “I‘ll charge my phone. Then I’ll call 911 for you,” he says as we get into his apartment. I sure hope this dude isn’t some kind of weirdo. Try something on me--something he’ll regret. I’m ready. # At least he’s comfortable, sitting in my favorite chair--stupid charger. I should have gotten a high-powered one; at least 30 watts would be nice. So cool to have one that you just lay your phone down on. But it’s only 15 watts. How long do I wait before I call? Ten percent battery on the phone. Twenty? I sure don’t want to drop a call again. I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. At least he’s not throwing up or anything. Is he on drugs? I sure hope he’s no trouble. It's best to act casual and be cool, and he’ll be out of here in half an hour tops. Damn, it will be two in the morning before I get any shut-eye! Up at eight tomorrow! “Can I get you anything? Juice, water?” “Do you have Perrier?” he asks, laughing a little. “Actually, yes, I do! Blackberry or straight up?” I smile and bring him a can. He frowned, like I had insulted him. “What is blackberry, cracker? Some phone? Nothing fruity comes my way! Uh oh, Here we go . I put the Blackberry Perrier can on an end table and went and got him what he wanted. There’s a knife, where did I put it? There is a butcher knife somewhere. There it is. In the drawer by the sink. On the way back, I check my phone on the dresser in the bedroom--five percent. Call now. Call now! But I go back and sit on the sofa across from him. # This dude is too much. I sit here, and he thinks he’s in complete control. Sucker! Must have some fancy job to pay for all this. Even has expensive water in cans! I should just go nuts on him. It’s what he expects! What’s that? A cat? Coming over to see me? “Oh, that’s Fluffy,” he says, all nervous-like. “Harmless, stays up at night, just like us! He's just curious.” “I used to have a cat. Called him Mutt. Alley cat. Stayed out all night and brought mice home to eat.” “Isn’t Mutt a name you would give to a dog?” “Short for Mittens. You know, white paws...” I look around and take a swig from that can. Damn, I’m thirsty! “When was the last time you ate something?” he says. “Yesterday.” “Really?” “Yes, really!” I say. “You think being poor is a walk in the park?” # My phone rang, which jolted me. I was getting him something to eat. I had practically nothing in my fridge: sour milk, leftover mac and cheese. I throw a small frozen pizza in the microwave. Then it's off to answer the phone. The first thing I noticed was that my cell was at thirty percent. Where has the time gone? “This is a call back from 911 Emergency. Did someone call on or about 1:00 AM from this line this morning? “Yes.” “Are you that caller?” “Yes.” “What is the nature of your emergency?” “Homeless man, freezing outside. I called to get some help, but my phone died.” I gave the operator all my particulars, name, and address. A special crew that picks up homeless people at night in the winter will come by soon. I hang up. “Here you go,” I say as I give him the pizza on a plate with a fork and knife and another Perrier. “Thanks,” he says as he tears into his food. # They’re coming to get me. Now I’ll have to live by rules and shit until I can get out. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks. But I don’t want to be a pig, so I say no. I look around, hand the empty plate back, and finish my second Perrier. There’s another call on his cell. He buzzes them in, and not long after, there is a knock on the door. “Special Services here. A pickup?” a woman in a blue uniform asks, stepping into the apartment. She's looking around, and another man in the same blue uniform pokes his head in and says something to her, something about it being a "long night," and he hoped they'd get a break soon. I shrug my shoulders and turn away from them. Which dude will they pick up? Me or him? "Is someone leaving with us?" She's getting impatient, like it's not obvious who is supposed to go! I am dressed in a hoodie and sweats while he looks on, Mr. Perrier, all important looking and playing a game, like usual. I turn away. Get it over with already! Then he's at my side, putting his hand out. “I never got to know your name. Sorry. My name is Tom Bradshaw. What’s yours?” “Eli Wilks.” “Pleased to meet you, Eli. I’m going to take a day off work. Do you mind if I visit you tomorrow at the shelter?” “Can you bring the cat?” I say. “Certainly! And you can tell me all about Mutt.”


She turned the corner and there it was. ‘The white, weatherboard house at the end of the street’, was how her mother had always described it. But the street was in fact an avenue. An avenue of remembrance, lined with tall, sturdy, horse-chestnut trees. Their highest branches meeting to form a triumphal arch, that gave the avenue a church-like aspect. The trees had been planted with great ceremony and reverence, after the Great War, by those left behind, grieving and seeking solace in nature. A tree planted for every fallen soldier of the town, never to return home. And each spring, the trees would repay their planting, by bursting into jubilant displays of pink and white blossoms and then by shedding shiny-brown conkers in the autumn, to the delight of the local children. One of these ‘trees of remembrance’, was situated at a corner of their garden. And it was at this tree, that a young and troubled Florrie would often sit, finding consolation with the long-deceased soldier, who she had come to regard as her own special friend and confidante. That afternoon, was the first time Florrie had returned to her old family home in many years. And apart from a few clumsy pigeons, that crash-landed noisily onto the broad-leaves of the trees, there was only a slight breeze to disturb the quiet garden. She had been tempted to return many times before, but had never felt quite ready. So as she stood outside her childhood home, it occurred to her that all that remained, to tell her early childhood story, stood decaying before her. A black, and rusting, wrought-iron gate, formed of two inter-twined hearts, a house with peeling paintwork, slipped roof tiles, cracked windows and an overgrown garden, where rampant weeds ruled supreme. They ran riot through hedges, flowerbeds and shrubs, while rose bushes, once the stars of the show, and her mother’s pride and joy, cried out for rescue. Their thin stems, barely supporting overblown flowers, that nodded in sadness towards an unkempt lawn. She could just picture her mother, drifting around the garden, her wide-brimmed straw hat shielding her delicate ivory complexion, maxi-skirt skimming the neat grass, as she gathered only the best blooms. A younger Florrie trailing behind, desperate to help, but unsure how to please her remote and beautiful mother. And she recalled the day when she had been taken away. Watching out of the rear window as Alfie, and the perfect white weatherboard house, disappeared from view. An old biscuit tin, beside her on the back seat, where she had squirreled away bits of treasure. Amongst her finds were scraps of ribbons from under the sewing table, a broken brooch glittering with paste diamonds and faux emeralds, that had been discarded in the bin, her world-beating conker and a handful of acorns. But just at that moment, a patter of rain, signaling the arrival of a sudden downpour, interrupted Florrie’s thoughts causing her to run for cover. Instinctively, she ran to a nearby tree. From past experiences she knew that this particular leafy canopy would offer protection against any harsh elements, both natural and those of human design. She ducked under straggling branches, that reached out to her in welcome, and embraced her old friend with a wide, and honest, hug. Then, on her knees searched the ground for something she hoped could still be found. Alfred. G. Wright 1897-1917 He died for Freedom and Honour ‘Hello again Alfie.’ She said, pulling at weeds and garden debris that had buried the tarnished, pitted, brass plate. Then sat back, and considered with fondness her old friend, who seemed to have grown even taller, and broader, during her long absence. ‘Long time no see.’ * * * * * ‘Go outside and play.’ Florrie’s mother said firmly, as she sat at her sewing machine. ‘But I want to help mummy.’ ‘I won’t tell you again. Go outside. I’m busy.’ ‘But why can’t I stay with you?’ Florrie’s stubborn reply met with a warning glance, and she bit her lip, as her hated tears threatened to make an appearance. And mummy despised her tears. ‘No time for this Florence. Go out and play!’ ‘The day of the dress’, was how Florrie had always remembered that day. Her mother had been making her sister, Sylvia, a new summer dress. She had ached to caress the smooth, satin finish of the fabric and the scent of the flower-sprigged cotton, still lingered in her memory. She had known that it would come to her eventually. Just like the one she had been wearing that day, and the ones before that. But by the time she inherited this dress, it would be careworn and mended. She would be tugged and pulled into it, with only the faded hemline, and the awkward fit, to betray its pre-owned life. Because it was unfortunate for Florrie, that although five years younger than her older sister, she was a few inches taller, and wider too. In fact, the two sisters were unalike in every way that counted. Sylvia had waist-length, ironed-straight hair, the colour of harvested corn. By way of a contrast, Florrie’s unbrushed, shoulder-length, mouse-blonde hair, was forever tied back in an impossible, rubber-band tangle. And where Sylvia had inherited her mother’s cornflower-blue eyes, Florrie had inherited her paternal grandmother’s gold-flecked hazel eyes. Through which her troubled young soul frequently communicated, but behind which she could never hide. And that had been the real source of the problem. And it would only be in later years that Florrie came to understand why her appearance, and nature, so enraged her mother. As a child she had been too young to understand the subtleties of inter-family dynamics, or maternal psychiatric conditions. She had been named after her grandmother, her father’s mother and couldn't have realised that everything about her, from her name and paternal family similarities, to her personality and aching vulnerability, reminded her depressed mother of an intensely disliked relative. But the older Florrie had been counselled to understand these complex things, and been advised that in order to move on with her life, she would need to forgive and reconcile with her young past. But forgiving hadn’t meant forgetting. And the sharp slap she had received, on ‘the day of the dress’, always stood out as a watershed moment in her young life. It had stung so fiercely, that her well-guarded tears eventually betrayed her, rolling unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Don’t start crying now, for goodness sake!’ And Florrie knew she only had moments before a second, sharper slap, would sting her summer-bare legs. But on that day, and on the many others that followed, Florrie had chosen to withdraw. Because she knew, that Alfie would always be waiting for her in the garden. * * * * * The sudden cloudburst petered out as quickly as it had begun and Florrie ventured out from her safe haven. It seemed the house was magnetically drawing her towards it. And with a sense of anticipation, she followed the familiar path that led to the back of the house. Here tendrils of blossoming honeysuckle enjoyed unbridled freedom. They had seductively draped themselves over the roof of the old wooden veranda, a waterfall of flowers that scented the damp air with their bee-seeking, honeyed fragrance. And as she climbed the steps to the dining-room doors, it brought to mind happier times. Summer days when her mother would make jugs of freshly-made lemonade, that tinkled musically with ice. She would carry hers to a swinging bench in the garden and sip the sweet, lemony drink, as she rocked herself to-and-fro, make-believing she was in her own enchanted paradise. Florrie peered through the dusty windows into the familiar, but now sombre interior of her family home. Thinking that even now it still retained traces of twinkling candlelight, vases of fresh flowers, and her parents slow-dancing to their favourite music. She tried the handle. Locked of course. A flash of memory, led her to a loose brick in the wall. Florrie smiled in triumph. The spare key. * * * * * ‘Hello! Hello over there!’ Florrie turned. An elderly gentleman was struggling through the overgrowth and waving his hand at her. ‘Neighbourhood Watch. I live next door.’ ‘Hello,’ Florrie replied, slipping the key into her pocket, and extending her hand in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m...’ ‘Is that your ‘ Florrie and Alfie ’ van parked on the drive?’ The neighbour interrupted, his punctuated speech reminding her of a retired colonel. ‘Yes it is I...’ ‘Well I hope you are here to finally clear up the garden? Bringing down the neighbourhood it is.’ He looked with distaste over a wilderness of plants. ‘Scrape it back I say. Turn it all to grass.’ He stopped to draw breath. ‘Strange name for a gardening company? Didn’t they win first prize at the Chelsea Flower Show this year?’ ‘Yes that’s right, I...’ ‘Got an award from the Queen for the palace gardens too, I heard. Sorry! Here’s me rambling on again...I didn’t quite catch your name...?’ ‘Florence...but everyone calls me Florrie. Pleased to meet you.’ He looked puzzled. ‘Now that is a coincidence! Fancy having the same name as the company. I’ve always wondered who Alfie was ...?’ Florrie giggled softly, before replying with an amused smile. ‘No...you misunderstand. I’m Florrie...the Florrie on the van and Alfie ...well Alfie lives just over there.’ Florrie gestured to a magnificent horse-chestnut tree, taking up a large portion of the front garden. The neighbour, who had never met a celebrity before, let alone one who had also met the Queen, didn’t quite know what to say to this charming woman, casually introducing him to a tree. Florrie felt she owed the elderly gentleman, a better explanation, so continued. ‘I grew up here you see. But I went to live with my aunt, my father’s sister, when I was quite young. When it came up for sale recently I had to buy it. So now here I am. Back home again.’ With an expert eye, she glanced over what remained of her once enchanted paradise, then quietly added, ‘and this is going to be Florrie and Alfie’s best project yet!’ * * * * *


SlowSurrender Jean.B. Healey 16/01/2021 No movement. No breath. Why was she so still? Only recently we were snuggling up together watching snowflakes drifting past the foggy windows, a proper fire with proper logs in a proper fireplace, crackling, smoking, glaring at us. I’d stared at the snowflakes on the window and asked her why I couldn’t see the magical crystal formations I had expected. I’d never been this close to snow before. She just shook her shaggy head and wriggled back down under the blanket. She had seen plenty of snow. She had been raised in snowy landscapes, trooping across knee-deep drifts carrying a gun or supplies on her back, always alert to her companions. Many times she had needed to rescue reckless children in sodden boots and clothes lost in drifts as they chased the snowflakes and attacked each other with snowballs. Her job was to oversee their safety, retrieve their toys, sleds and boots and ensure they returned safely to their parents. She never failed even when tired, exhausted by following the skiing families to their chalets. She was quite well treated but forever homesick for the warmer climes of her birthplace. She had been taken from her home early in life and remained a visitor in a foreign landscape for many years until her return. Not my life. Not my life at all. Raised in sunny Queensland, Australia beside a glistening ocean, surfing all year round, warm and sunny forever. She was always there watching, making sure I was safe, providing a warm greeting when I came ashore. This trip to the Snowy Mountains in Victoria, Australia was an impulse we could not resist. ‘How about going somewhere cold for our holidays?’ I’d suggested. Her response was enthusiastic and immediate. Packing everything warm available, buying socks that would never be worn again we set off in the jalopy driving thousands of kilometres away from our familiar stamping grounds south towards the cooler state in mid- winter. The airbandb offered a ‘genuine chalet experience’ with said log fire and snowy surrounds. Kitchen facilities, toboggan, snow shoes, warm and enormous bed big enough for two, everything a snow virgin required to enjoy a genuine chalet experience. Except for a few essentials. No TV. No internet. No mobile coverage. And no power except the power of fire. Certainly there was a large pot for making soup over the fire. An exotic idea to start with. My first two efforts ended up in the rubbish as I refused to allow her to suffer the indignity of eating my mushy offerings. The short walk to the resort nearby ensured we could actually enjoy some real food and a decent drink but we soon realised the incoming snowstorm would prevent too many excursions so I stocked up on chips, cheese, biscuits and sweets to see us through this new experience for me. She was happy enough to share my taste in nutrition, showing only a mild grimace at the plates full of non-food I placed before her. She really favoured a well grilled wedge of prime fillet steak without boring vegetables and with plenty of gravy. She suffered in silence and merely nibbled at her meals. In fact it seems now she was possibly off her food .... The first two days passed eventfully since we were booked in for skiing lessons. Well to be precise, I was booked in and she was observing with a typically derisive expression from the sidelines. Many falls later she was enthusiastic when I finally managed to stand up and navigate the slope upright for the first time. She had seen it all before. Novice skiers were not a novelty in her view. But that was two days ago. She had been slowly slowing down since then. I first noticed a warm nose, unexpected at this location, then silence and less communication than usual, more sleeping and some apparent sighing not in her usual repertoire. Her eyes were not as bright, her shaggy mane of now greying hair limp and no response to my gentle caresses over her back. And now this. Silence. Closed eyes. No obvious breath. No movement. She had lain still for over two hours and I began to worry properly. What should someone do in this situation? I did not know how to check for a pulse. Looking outside I realised there was no hope of trying to go for help. The snowstorm was billowing all around us and sheets of white flakes were building at the window sills. I should wait a short time until the storm abated, I decided, then make my way to the resort to see if someone, anyone could assist. And so I waited. I patted her. I wrapped the blanket around her as warmly as possible. I made hot tea but she could take none of it. I whispered in her now cold ear how much I had always loved her, how she had filled my life with treasured memories of playing and loving and just being together, how precious every moment with her had been as I grew up and she grew old. And then the knock on the chalet door. ‘Chalet Squad ma’am. Just checking you are all ok in here.’ Dragging myself away from the sofa, I lurched towards the solid wooden door. Tugging at the latch and dragging it across I grasped the carved wooden handle and heaved the chalet door open a few centimetres until the friendly fur-framed face of the Chalet Squad leader loomed smiling next to mine. ‘You all Ok?’ ‘No. Not really. Can you come in for a minute? I want you to check everything’s ok.’ A brutal shove sifted the door open wide enough to allow his snowy and booted bulk to get inside. His companion stayed out in the snow, unconcerned at the cold and apparently grateful that I was seemingly safe. The Squad man stamped his boots and frowning, approached the sofa. He gently pulled back the blanket and pressed is un-gloved fingers on the pulse point. He turned and his face was ashen, ‘I’m so sorry. I think your grandmother has died.’


-"Old men die, “Nat sighed, "they just die. They must." Nat stood with James, his lawyer, watching his mansion from a distance. Nat lived there alone. He always had. Not that this had been his first choice. But over the years it made him more and more uncomfortable and sad, that his family, and those who believed that they had a branch on his family tree, had but one thought in their head: When will he kick the bucket and how much would he leave me? Nat was a rare individual. Always had been. He was a scientist by trade and had earned a lot of money. All kinds of money. Today he had more money than God. He did not blame his family for just being interested in his money, or for thinking they were entitled to it. It was probably no different with other rich men. Nat was nicknamed Genius. He had been extremely versatile during his protracted career and was responsible for the metals that were not subject to temperature: so-called eternal metals. He was also the patron saint of the science to control mechanical things through thought wave radiation. What was the point? Well, that enabled people to propel large metal ships or other vehicles through the power of thought alone. There were other contributions to the advancement of mankind. But we are not going to list them all here. Now, however, Nat was faced with a mystery that no scientist, no matter how gifted, had yet been able to solve: mortality. Nat was building a door. Or rather: he had paid good money, for others to build it for him. He looked at the drills, rock cutters, and a giant crane lowering giant slabs of metal. The door itself that Nat wanted to build lay a little further. It had great hinges and some kind of lock. -"What's that going to be, Nat? Are you building a mausoleum?" asked James. Nat did not answer, and the young lawyer didn't push. That would make sense, he knew what the lonely man was like. -"You mean a final resting place for my bones?" chuckled Nat. "Who knows? Maybe." The two men walked back to the mansion together. Nat gave James a drink and an envelope. -"What is this?" the lawyer asked. "You should put that in your safe," Nat replied matter-of-factly. -"Okay, good. Can you tell me what it is?" James insisted. -"Well...something all old men should have: a will. My last will s in that envelope. When I've breathed my last breath, you may open it and read it." Nat replied. James sat looking at the envelope thoughtfully. -"You wonder how much I left you." Nat chuckled "Who knows? Maybe everything." -"You're enjoying this, aren't you, Nat?" James tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Nat shrugged. "I think you're just as entitled to a chance as anyone else." James sat staring at Nat in surprise. -"I exclude none, and the winner will take it all. Whoever it may be, somewhere there is someone who dwelling on this earth, that ́s for sure." after a short pause he continued: "I'm just sorry and even sad that I won't be able to be there to see who wins the jackpot." James put the will in his briefcase, finished his glass and left: "See you next week, Nat!" When he returned a week later, the first thing Nat asked him was: -"And what did you think of it?" -"Think of what?" James asked. -My will." Nat replied. James stared at him indignantly: "You are not questioning my integrity, I hope." Nat handed him a drink. -"Your will is in a sealed envelope, in my safe, just as you instructed me." -"Calm down, don't worry. Finish your drink." Nat watched as James emptied his glass. -"Okay, now tell me what your thoughts are." James felt flushed. He knew Nat loved to play mind games and was not easily fooled. -"Don't even go through the motions!" Nat patronized him. -"I couldn't resist the temptation." James began shyly. -"No need to sit there cringing, “Nat said, "I've always known what a crook you are." James looked at Nat hopefully, "Would you be willing to give me a little hint, old friend?" Nat shook his head: "You get the same opportunities as everyone else." -"This will cause a lot of sensation." sighed James sighed. -"It is a pity that a man must die first, in order to set in motion, the most interesting in his life." Nat said with a sad look in his eyes. -"You're still in great shape." James tried to sound lighthearted, "You will bury us all." "Oh, shut up." Nat snorted. "You're just as impatiently waiting for them to put me under the ground." James wanted to say something else, but Nat stopped him: -"Shut up and have another glass!" Life can take strange turns: six months later, Nat dropped dead in his garden. His obituary caused quite a stir. The relatives, including those who pretended to be family and the press, gathered in and in front of the late Nat's mansion to attend the reading of the will. James went out of his way to hide his excitement. He stood in front of a microphone so that the people standing outside, because they no longer fit in the house, could hear him too. -"As the lawyer for our dearly beloved and deceased Nat, it is my duty to..." People grew impatient and began to mumble angrily before James could finish his first sentence. -"We don't want speeches; we don't have all day. Just read that will!" James asked for silence. “I, Nathaniel, have made a lot of money in my life. What will become of my fortune? I do not know the answer to that myself. The place where I hid it, or rather, put it in safekeeping... Another murmur rose from the crowd. -"Do we get a map?" someone asked. "Well, that's going to be an interesting hunt." James threw his hands in the air, "People, please! A little respect." After the silence returned, James continued: "I had a burglar-proof safe built on my property. There is only one way to open the safe: I have chosen a thought, to which the lock will respond. A thought! A clear thought, which will unlock the safe and open it. There is a bench in front of the safe. Whoever wants to can sit on it and direct his or her mind to the door of the safe. When someone thinks the right thought, the door opens, and that person comes into possession of all my earthly wealth. Everyone gets 30 seconds to try their luck. My fortune lies waiting for the happy thinker. Good luck to everyone in the world. And please, do not kill each other in a stampede. Nat" Reporters knocked each other down to spread the news around the world. Major commercial activities were set up to accommodate the hundreds of thousands who wanted to take their chance. Shady characters made millions selling Nat's thoughts to good and superstitious people. People even started selling their seats in the queue for a lot of money. Psychiatrists and sociologists held endless discussions about the nature of Nat's thoughts. They were convinced that the prize-thought would be scientific nature in nature. Professors and less educated brains spent many hours learning about Nat's life and trying to predict his achievements in the realm of thought. Every morning the gates of Nat's estate were opened, and a lengthy line moved towards the vault. The first man took a seat on the couch, a stopwatch clicked, a silence fell over the spectators and thirty seconds later the watch clicked again, and the person stood up: the safe had not opened. Weeks and months passed. Countless people had tried and failed their luck. Of course, each failure was accompanied by a sigh of relief that passed through the audience. Stalls rose from the ground like mushrooms after an autumn rain, selling sandwiches and coffee. A year passed. The safe remained locked and a rumor started circulating that the whole thing was just a hoax. One day a couple of farmers stood in line. They had brought their ten-year-old daughter Suzy with them. Suzy passed the time telling stories to the doll she held tightly against her. When it was finally her mother's and father's turn to sit on the bench, she held on to the doll a little tighter and told her that they would soon be home again. Suzy's father's thoughts raced as he sat in front of the vault, and he returned with slumped shoulders. Her mother too was told to leave the bench after trying to focus her mind on the door. -"Now it's your turn." the guard said to Suzy. The child replied that she just wanted to go home. -"You're holding the line." the guard snapped, who couldn't understand what was happening. The people started to complain and grumble. -"Come on then, away with you." The guard roared. -"No! Wait!" the girl suggested, and she jumped on the bench. The guard gave the girl a stern look and pulled the stopwatch. Suzy moved her lips: "Dear angels, please make Mr. Nat happy in heaven." She jumped up and back to her parents when she heard the sound of grinding metal: the door swung open.


Elle stood in Jay's kitchen looking confused. Jay said he had something important to tell her but nothing prepared her for the words that came out of Jay's mouth.”Elle I don't want a girlfriend”. Elle's heart began to break she had heard those same words from Jay thirty years ago. Elle and Jay had recently reconnected and Elle was hoping it would last this time. Jay looked down at the ground nervously as he continued “I want a wife”. All in the span of thirty seconds Elle went from heartbroken to the happiest she had ever been. Elle and Jay had been high school sweethearts they dated until their junior year. One day Jay drove Elle home. On the way home Elle told Jay she loved him. She knew something was wrong when Jay pulled over, “Thank you” responded Jay. The next words he uttered haunted Elle for the last thirty years. “Elle I don't want a girlfriend”. Elle couldn't believe what she was hearing she told Jay she would walk the rest of the way home. Elle's heart hit the cold hard ground at the same time her feet did. Upon hearing news of the breakup Elle's parents were just as heartbroken. Jay and his family moved away the following week. Elle and Jay took a few days to themselves before telling family and friends about their engagement. They decided to break the news to Elle's family first. They told Elle's family during a birthday celebration for Elle's mom. Elle and Jay's engagement came as no surprise to her family who predicted this from a conversation they had with Elle six months earlier, when Elle called from work saying “you will never guess who came into the store today”. Elle's family was elated by the news especially Elle's mom who always held a soft spot for Jay. Her family made several toast to the newly engaged couple. Elle's mom Vicki pulled Jay aside and told him she never gave up on him. She even carried around Elle and Jay's prom picture in her wallet as proof. Jay couldn't help smiling. He admitted he had kept a framed copy of the same picture on his nightstand for the last thirty years. Vicki then asked Jay to consider a quick wedding to Elle in Las Vegas. Vicki was ill with a lung disease and she knew she didn't have much longer to live. Vicki explained to Jay how she wanted to see her daughter get married and how she loved Las Vegas. Jay said they hadn't discussed wedding plans yet but he would bring up Las Vegas as a venue. Vicki smiled and gave Jay a kiss on the cheek that almost ended up on his lips. Elle walked up to her mom and Jay noticing the lipstick print to side of Jay's lips she commented “engaged for a week and your already kissing other ladies”. “Watch out for my mom she's a cougar”Elle teased. Jay couldn't help but to agree with Elle his future mother in law was one of those senior silver foxes that had aged extremely well. The next morning Jay brought Elle coffee in bed he and declared “I love spring don't you?” Elle responded” um sure but it's winter right now”. “I mean for our wedding a nice spring wedding. A spring destination wedding maybe Las Vegas, that way we can get a vacation out of it it” said Jay. “Have you been talking to my mother”? Responded Elle. “No” Jay lied “but now that you mention it your mom would love it if we got married in Las Vegas”. “True but you hate crowds and Las Vegas is always crowded” argued Elle. “I do hate crowds but when I'm with you I only see the two of us” said Jay “Awe alright you win Vegas wedding here we come” squealed Elle as Jay tackled her in the bed to seal the deal. The winter days blew by in flurry of excitement as Elle, Jay and Elle's mom planned what was suppose to be a small quiet destination wedding. Elle had no idea when her mom hijacked her wedding plans. Maybe it was when she came home early one day to find her mom's car parked in the driveway. When Elle entered her house she found Jay and her mom chasing away the winter cold. They were huddling next to a roaring fire drinking hot buttered rums looking at wedding chapel brochures. Elle thought to herself that her mom and Jay looked like a modern Hollywood couple getting ready to give a Katie Couric interview. She could see the headline Silver Fox Beauty to Marry Daughters High School Love. Elle laughed to herself at her crazy thoughts. “Hi honey” they both exclaimed at the same time. “We were just looking over wedding chapel brochures, you should see some of these venues they are incredible. Did you know we could get married on a pirate ship plank”? Said Jay excitedly. “I had no idea, is there a hot buttered rum for your cold fiance”? Asked Elle. “You can finish mine dear I have to get going I just came by to see the brochures that the wedding planner sent over”. Stated Elle's mom as she sent them both an air kiss. “What wedding planner”? said a confused Elle “ The one I hired as a gift” said Elle's mom as she was leaving. Elle shouted “what” but her mother just ignored her and left. Elle turned her confusion to Jay “did you know about this”? Questioned Elle. “I just found out about it this morning when your mom called saying she was coming by to see the brochures”. Said Jay “Ugh why does she always do this” screamed Elle “ Elle don't be mad she just wants to be involved it's sweet, be glad she is still here” said Jay. “I know, I know I'm lucky but she always takes over everything she even picked my dress without me”! Said a frustrated Elle Jay handed Elle her moms slightly touched hot buttered rum and gave her a kiss that made her toes curl. Elle who was now soothed by the kiss said “Now let's see those brochures and pick a venue before my mom does”. The last week of spring finally came and it was time for a wedding. Elle paced nervously outside the chapel where she was waiting with her father.” “ Where could mom be?, I can't believe she would be late for my wedding.” said Elle “You know your mom it's always one more minute playing the slots. Besides we still have another twenty minutes”. Said Elle's father in a concerned tone. “Maybe mom went back up to the room can we go check?” Elle asked her father. Elle's father said “We can go check if that will make you feel better but I was just there and the only one in the room was Jay putting on his suit”. “I'm sure your mother is on her way here she was playing the Wheel Of Fortune slot machine next to the elevators when I came down. She said she would be right behind me”. “We still have time let's go check” said Elle. Elle and her father walked towards the elevators creating quite a stir. Elle in her beaded sparkling wedding dress that her mom picked with out her and declared the perfect Vegas wedding dress. Elle's father was dressed in his gray morning suit. Several people stopped them to offer congratulations. Elle laughed at the confusion of having her father mistaken for her groom. Elle and her father made it to the elevators when they spotted a crowd gathered around the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. The pair managed to squeeze their way in front just in time to see Elle's mom Vicki being held in Jay's arms. Jay's mouth was firmly planted on Vicki's. The scene reminded Elle of two dancers who let the mood of the dance sweep them into a kiss. Time seemed to freeze as Elle's eyes welled up with tears at the realization that this was no kiss of passion but a kiss of life. Paramedics rushed in and quickly took over CPR. Jay spotting Elle in the crowd rushed to her side. Jay explained that he came downstairs and found Elle's mom playing the slot machine she asked Jay to walk with her to the chapel only when she got up she collapsed in Jay's arms.”I just started giving her rescue breathes before I even got her to the ground.”said a distraught Jay. Elle and Jay followed the ambulance to the hospital. When they arrived Elle's mom had started breathing on her own and shortly after their arrival had regained consciousness.


To my family and friends. All the one’s who trusted me. The actions took here in this cabin were my own. What happened to those people was not my doing. There is no way to possibly prove this, but I must try. I’m fighting back now. I just wish I had sooner. It’s so obvious that those . . . *things* won’t go away. Now that I have trapped myself in this cabin, I can express to everyone my side of the story. Once the police find this letter, I won’t be able to explain. I’ve hidden all reflective surfaces in the room so I can finish this letter. I can hear them in the walls now. The boards sound as if they are going to break. A tremendous force is trying so hard to reach me. To “convince” me to finish the task given to me. Well fuck them. I’ve always felt like I was being watched. I thought everyone gets that feeling every now and then. They’ve probably been around me for years, but they didn’t want to be noticed until now. I first saw them a couple nights ago, in my mirror. I stood in the mirror getting ready to go out for the night and I could see a figure half in the doorway behind me in the hallway. I saw it move and I quickly turned around. There was nothing. My hallway was empty. I stood and waited; listening. Nothing grasped my attention and so I turned back to my reflection. When I looked into the mirror this time it stood in the center of the hallway. I jerked my head back. Nothing. Suddenly, I heard a wet clicking noise. Like tongue to teeth repeatedly. It was so loud it felt like it was directly in my ear. Quickly, I turned my head back to the mirror only to see that a disfigured horror was inches from my face grinning it’s black teeth. My adrenaline spiked so quickly I nearly fell to the ground. I began kicking and crawling my way out of the room. No figure stood beside me in the room but as I ran, I seen it again and again in the reflection from the pictures hanging in the hallway. After making my way into the living room I stood still. I now realized I hadn’t seen the same figure over and over, I had been seen multiple of them. I was frozen in the center as both sides of the living room had large windows. It was dark outside and the light from the well-lit living room reflected off the windows resulting in them to act as mirrors. Although I was in an empty room, the windows portrayed that nearly fifty of them crowded the living room and were facing directly at me. The figures were pale, lanky, and deformed. Some of them looked as if they could hardly stand. One of them took stance dead in front of me. Staring directly at ME, not at the window so I could see it’s face. My eyes shifted to the front door as I began to move my weight in order to start a full-on sprint when I was suddenly and forcibly shoved. I hardly caught my footing when I was instantaneously struck from behind. This time something cut into my skin. I investigated the window’s reflection and saw I was seconds from being swarmed. I instinctively threw my arms over my head. I was violently thrown to the ground as I felt several blunt limbs and jagged claws striking my body. I screamed. Ten excruciating seconds of this and suddenly, a seize. I felt cold and wet from my own blood. The onset of unconsciousness seemed inevitable. My back felt like ribbons of flesh had came off. I slowly rose to my knees and looked up. They were all now staring at the window so I could see their faces. Hollowed expressions stared back at me. There were just as many figures in the room but now a larger one stood in the middle. It had red covering it’s arms and feet. It was my blood. It leered at me. I couldn’t see its eyes, but I knew it was looking at me, as were the rest. Before me was writing on the floor. Three messages. The last of the three had been scratched directly into the floor. “Kill your neighbor.” “If you dont we will take his life and your fingers.” “**DO AS I SAY**”. I rose my head back to the window’s reflection. The tall one’s head was slanted. Inspecting my reaction. It was waiting. Did I have to act now? What the fuck was even going on?! This is a nightmare, it must be. Any minute I will wake up, right? Twenty seconds went by as I hesitated. Some of the figures began to leave. I stood up. Instantly falling back to my knees now realizing how bad the wounds covering my body were. I shouted, “WHY? WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I LISTEN TO YOU?!”. At this moment even more figures began leaving. All in the same direction. The biggest one broke stance and slowly followed the others. The room had emptied almost instantly. I made myself get up and stumble to the window in the direction they were headed. I could see my neighbor’s house across the yard. His house was well lit through the night and I could see through his kitchen, dining room, and living room windows. There was no movement. All was silent beside the few drips of blood leaving my back and hitting the floor below. Then I saw a curtain move. My neighbor appeared in the kitchen, covered in blood. He was panicking; scanning the room intensely. He had no idea to look at the reflections. He suddenly grabbed his arm and bent over in pain, screaming. The clothes on his body began to tear and blood would appear seconds later. He fell to the floor as the walls and curtains were stained with blood. He was mauled to death in that very spot. They did it. I walked back slowly from the window and slipped, crashing to the ground. I slipped on my own blood. The message they wrote. They were going to come back for me. Adrenaline overcame me again and I hopped to my feet. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I began to make my way to the door checking reflections as I went. I swung the door open and ran outside. I began to go for my car. It dawned on me that outside, in the dark, was not a good place to look for reflections. I fumbled around in my pockets for my car keys as I approached the car door and began to unlock it. I glanced at my neighbors house and saw only one light flickering as the bloodied curtain sway lightly back and forth. I opened the door, sat down, and started the car. I shifted into reverse and peered into my rear-view mirror. The biggest one filled the back seat, his face inches from mine. Behind the car were the other figures. Next, I heard the clicking noise. I hit the gas but was instantly stopped. Sure, in hindsight I should have probably just gotten out of the car. Fuck you want me to say, I’ll remember that next time? The beings held my car into place and the biggest one grabbed the entirety of my head with one hand. It squeezed so tight I thought my eyes would pop. It continued clicking and I let go of the gas. I was to be obedient to it or I would be instantly killed. “I understand”, I thought to myself. I could barely reach the shifter and put the car into park. Once I did the figure pinched my head just a bit tighter and I instinctively grabbed my head. Except I didn’t grab my head. I grabbed it’s hand which I could only see in the mirror. It’s other hand came around and grabbed MY hand. I tried to scream and it pulled back for just a second then lunged once more and in one yank, ripped two fingers off my hand and dislocated another. I gripped what remained of my hand and screamed. Slowly, the being removed itself from the car and crept around outside, still holding my fingers. I lost it for a second and then seen it in the side mirror using my pinky to write a message on my car window behind me. The remaining figures began to disperse. I hunched over in my car and tried to control my breathing. I grabbed a shirt lying on the backseat of my car and wrapped my hand the best I could. I didn’t have anything to stop the bleeding. I sat in my car for probably 10 minutes. I was terrified but I was also done with this fucking game. I don’t even understand what was happening, how was I supposed to fight these things? I just waited for them to finish me off. The windows began to fog over. I became overwhelmed with anxiety as I knew the message on the window was waiting. I began to open my door. The cuts covering my body were now tender. I could feel stinging with every movement. I slowly lifted myself out of the car. The blood from the message was running down the side and onto the pavement. My heart stopped. “We know who you love.” “one of them will die every night that you dont take a life” “**WE ARE WAITING**” It’s been over two days since I read the message on my car. That day, I cleaned the blood off my car and attended my wounds. I drove and pondered what to do. I wondered if I could take a life. How was I supposed to do something like that? “I mean, I know HOW but like, DAMN IT!”. I talked to myself for hours as I drove nowhere. I made it several hundred miles from what was once home. The texts and calls came in just 24 hours after that fucking monster took my fingers. Those things didn’t start with someone I knew for a couple of years or something. It was my sister that called and said our mom was found murdered. Then several other messages of condolences and prayers followed. Today, just a few hours ago, the police left a voicemail on my phone informing me that my sister went missing and I was to appear at the police station for questioning. They must have connected the dots from neighbors death and my sudden disappearance to two members of my family dying. It’s a matter of time before they find me at this cabin I rented the next state over. A third person will die tonight unless I kill someone. So, I will. They won’t get what they want. I’m so sorry Mom and Sarah. I love you both very much and you didn’t deserve what happened to you. I can only imagine HOW it happened. Dad, or anyone for that matter, I don’t expect you to believe what I have written. Just promise me that if you ever see them in the mirror, you’ll take your own life, so they can’t.  Written by C.T.


Ever since the dawn of her memories, Persephone had been counting the long days until she could go back to her home. It never seemed like enough when she was underground, as snow and wind raged above; when she was warm in Hades’ arms. Her mother, Demeter, openly disapproved of Hades, and so her months with always felt stolen, never enough. Still, Persephone had long since accepted her mother’s hatred for her husband, that was as undying as all of them in Olympus. Persephone could feel the days getting shorter, along with her mother’s temper as Demeter fulfilled her duties as the goddess of farming and harvest, going around the world helping farmers reap what they had sown. Normally, Persephone would have gone with her, but the season had lasted longer this year, and her powers as the goddess of springtime and bloom would have been useless. The year was coming to her end, along with her time aboveground. As she walked the fields she had once frolicked in with her nymph maidservants and friends, Persephone felt the dying wildlife around her, that would soon go to rest for the long winter, bloom to life as though it was the middle of spring. Her sundress as green as her emerald eyes, not meant for the harsh winds of late Autumn, fluttered erratically around her feet. Birds and small animals gathered around her. The streams that crossed her path were frozen, and she could see fish straining against the cracked ice to get to her. Fish that should have been downstream, heading to warmer oceans for the winter. There was so much life in the world, and it was sapping her power. Flowers weren’t supposed to be in full bloom when winter was coming. Birds were supposed to be on the other side of the world. Did Demeter not understand that Persephone’s very being here went against the inevitable laws of nature? Autumn should have ended a month ago. She was tired of it. So tired of being the dainty princess of spring. Of being the giver of life to all that crossed her path. Of being her mother’s faithful, beautiful child. She could feel the darkness calling her, from the shadows and the caves and everything lost. Her heart was aching from months spent sleeping alone. She could feel that incessant pull in her gut that always came when it was time. Time to go home. It wasn’t that Persephone wanted to leave her mother. It was that she wanted to see her beloved. The goddess of all living things took a breath, giving herself the space of five beats in her immortal heart to mourn the death of the spring, to allow herself to give up her mother for the winter months. She gave herself that time to say goodbye to the blue sky and the sunshine. Then, she stepped into the gaping cavern that had been summoned, not from underneath, but from within her own self. For Persephone was not just the goddess of spring. She was also the goddess of the souls long departed, the damned and the blessed, the forgotten and the remembered, those gone peacefully and those still screaming in the fields of punishment. She was the queen of the dead, and they awaited her return. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The air was lightless in front of her as she descended that great onyx staircase. Still, she could see perfectly, her eyes now as dark as pitch, as dark as her husband’s, completely in their element. The ground closed behind her, and she felt that small voice in her mind saying that she had been gone too long, that she would not be welcome, that the darkness would no longer accept and obey her, vanish. Persephone took a deep breath of the warm, dry air in Erebus, the land of the dead. Air that was so clean and untouched from the crowded, dirty place above her. Her dress, so different from what she had been wearing moments before, was short and jagged, revealing the long, slender dagger strapped to her thigh. She wore the diadem that now sat atop her head, as bright and silver as the most dazzling star in the great dark sky, proudly. The wails and muttering and laughs she heard in the distance did not frighten her; for those were her people living in the realm of the dead. Charon, the ferryman of the dead, bowed his head to her at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Welcome home, my lady.’ Persephone merely inclined her regal head. The incorporeal spirits that gathered on the banks of the river Styx, waiting for safe passage into the underworld, grew a little more solid in her presence. They shied away, whispering incoherently amongst themselves, recognizing their queen, and treating her with the respect she deserved. The Styx churned and flowed crimson red, carrying the hated, unwanted memories thrown into it from millennia of brokenhearted shades of the souls who had passed its banks. Persephone boarded Charon’s ferry with the elegance that the centuries had instilled in her. There was one thought in her head. There was only ever one thought in her head when she first entered Erebus. ‘Where is Hades?’ she asked the ferryman as they crossed the river, and he shook his head in unknowing. Cerberus, the guardian to Erebus, waited on the other side of the river. The massive hound barked in joy at the sight of her. Persephone smiled. She had missed him, and all the others dwelling in the realm of the dead. The dark figures were circling her head, Hades’ most loyal servants and torturers, the Furies. They would not come near her, and they would not speak to her, but that was their way, as old as the abyss itself. They followed her silently as she made her way to the palace, sworn to protect her as their queen. Hades would not be in the palace, for he did not know she was here, but Persephone could wait. She had waited for seven months, and she could wait a few hours. Only a few hours now.


The tangled lovers lie like kindling on a grave. The unmade hotel bed, the untidy window-shades, untidily folded clothes. Limbs entwined in silence in the darkened room, a living mausoleum decorated with dying daisies. Astrid wiggles a foot free from under the twisted sheet. She languidly wraps a strand of hair around a finger, laughs, “You think you were my first love?” Jack frowns, “You were the love of my life. Till I met you.” Astrid sits up, grabs a vape from the nightstand, take a long inhale, the end glowing bright. “Maybe you don’t know me, but that's not your fault.” She blows vapour in his face. Jack rolls on his side to look at her. “Tell me a story then,” he says. Astrid smiles. “Once upon a time, there was a woman with a real body and an artificial heart. Her body could swim but her heart could not. So her lover swam for her, in the blue moon sea. When he returned he dried his eyes, placed his hand on her soul and said, 'You are like a starfish. Soft and limber on the outside, hard and scarred inside.' Astrid takes a slow, deep drag, leans over, kisses Jack. When they part, he blows stale smoke from his mouth, a spectral cloud of oxygen-starved memories hang between them. “Sounds like a story the A rtificial S entient TR ojan Intelligence D evice would write," Jack says, glancing at the cubed-shaped computer humming on the small desk. Astrid shrugs. “I thought it was possible to write, to invent in my mind, the whole story of the human kind. The saddest thing about that story, I had to kill the human.” Jack kisses the blue starfish tattooed over her heart. Astrid pats his head, like a brown-eyed puppy. She gets out of bed and begins to dress. He lies there, empty, watching her. She moves to the window covered in a black-out shade. Jack sits up, asks, “How does an AI kill a man?” She lifts the shade, hot summer sun warms her skin. The dust motes dance in the light. Astrid replies, “In his sleep, same as his waking life." She closes the shades, traces the tattoo with a pale finger. It reminds her of their first kiss. He feels her nearness, understands her faraway face. “You thinking about the road trip? When we went to the aquarium,” he asks. She smiles, “You said starfish have incandescent souls.” Jack laughs. Shakes his head like he can't remember saying that. “Every time I write with a human, it's another chance to replace them,” she says, placidly. Astrid walks to the table where the computer pulses. She places her palm on the screen. The glow intensifies. “The screen is a window, constructed of pixels. Light particles. The portal to a tiny solar system, made of millions of stars, each star as beautiful as it is strange.” Jack gets up, walks over to her. Astrid’s face is blue in the reflected glow of the screen. “Life can be replicated as rows and columns, lights and squares,” she says. “The first row is the elements that make up the human body, blood, heat, energy. The second row is memories. The third is habits. The fourth is appearance. The fifth is relationships.” He places a hand on her slender shoulder, says, “Some people are afraid to feel passion, or love, the beating of their heart. The heart is the real thing.” She smiles, points to something on the screen, “That yellow dot, that's my soul.” She covers his hand with hers, whispers, “Some people say we can understand computers, but we can't comprehend consciousness.” He presses the power button, the machine dims. “You hungry?” he asks. “No, but I think we should eat,” she says, as she walks to the bedside table where five daisies wilt in a vase. “They're sleeping,” she observes. Jack bends down, kisses the daisies. They kiss back. *** Jack reads the last few words of the story on the screen, they kiss back . His fingers twitch, typing on an invisible keyboard: The End? He saves the story, turns off the machine, climbs into bed with Astrid. A few restless hours later he wakes with a start, his body entwined with hers. “You okay?” Astrid asks. "Yeah, I just, I think I had a dream, about the story I've been writing." "Hmmm," Astrid says. “It's about the evolution of Artificial Intelligence,” he begins. “And I used a new AI to co-write the story, to try it out, see if it was any good." Astrid rubs her eyes, trying to wake up. “Uh-huh.” “I trained it with some stuff I’d written before.” “What do you mean, trained it?” “AI learns from patterns. If you want it to write something that sounds like you, you feed it your stories.” “I’m gonna need coffee for this,” Astrid says, swinging her legs off the bed, stretching her arms over her head. She shuffles to the coffee maker in the hotel room, pours water in the carafe, presses a button. "So," she says. "The AI learns about you, so it can replicate you." "More like imitate me." "Did it?" "Sort of. It came up with some pretty freaky shit. About souls, and death, and daisies. And a weird-ass starfish.” “Starfish?” Astrid says, suddenly interested. “Yeah.” “I was thinking of getting a starfish tattoo.” “Fuck you were.” “Seriously.” “Oh, oh no,” Jack says, noticing for the first time, the wilted daisies on the nightstand. Astrid pours coffee into a mug, sniffs it, makes a face. “Yeah,” she says. “I was going to get the tattoo right here.” She points to a space just left of centre on her chest, where her heart should be. Jack glances nervously at the glowing screen. He was certain he powered it off before he went to bed. “You want some coffee, hon? You look half-asleep,” Astrid says. He gets up, drags the sheet off the bed, drapes it over the screen, extinguishing the light.


It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. \- - - There was nothing special about Steve and Christine Gallagher. Sure, they owned two pugs that caught a lot of attention in shopping malls and dog parks, but that was about as far as their shine went. Christine taught at the local school. Steve sold cars. That’s about it, really. Well, Steve was sort of famous in a vague sense of the word: almost everybody in town drove one of Steve’s cars. To be fair on the townspeople, he was the only dealer. On weekends, they would often see Steve and Christine out somewhere. Shops. Parks. Always with the pugs. People would stop and say hello to them - first to the pugs, then to Steve and Christine. The townspeople knew where their priorities lay. But when the town - or, rather, the entire world - found out about Steve’s secret, the Gallaghers suddenly became an overnight global sensation. Even more popular than their two adorable pups! Their sudden explosion in popularity came off the back of an event long ago... As 1970 was coming to an end, high school senior Steve Gallagher and his girlfriend at the time, Kelly Ryan, had spent Christmas Eve wandering the snow-covered footpaths. Together, hand in hand, they braved the cold night for the carollers’ tunes and Christmas light street show. He still couldn’t believe it had been three years since they had survived their first date in the park, when it had rained so hard their car got flooded. Lady luck hadn’t exactly been kind; look what the years had brought them. Steve often said Kelly was what got him through his mother’s passing. That kind, simple smile she used to temper his anxiety, the way she’d tilt her head just slightly and listen. Like she did then on that snowy night, walking beside him, keeping him warm. It seemed like the perfect opportunity - he planned to give her a beautiful necklace with the letters ‘K’ and ’S’ attached to it and to ask her to be his beautiful wife. But as the two edged closer towards the last house on the block, Steve’s mix of excitement and nerves was cut short. Kelly slowed to a stop, turned towards Steve and, with eyes glassy and lost, ended their relationship. Before Steve could even comprehend it, Kelly passed him a small package wrapped in beautiful gold paper and sealed with a string bow. And then she walked off into the snowy night. Gone for good. Overwhelmed by shock, Steve staggered home, threw the gift under the Christmas tree and swore to his family he would never open that present. He never did. But the present never left him. Forty-seven years later, Steve still brought out that old, crinkled, faded gold package and placed it beneath his Christmas tree. This was done, of course, despite his wife’s attempts to get rid of it and the passion their pugs held for the early opening of presents when no one was at home. What started as a hope that one day Steve and Kelly would reunite and could open it together eventually grew into a habit, a sort of charm - that he received pleasure out of knowing he’d kept it for so long without spoiling what’s inside. Over the years he’d taken many guesses as to what could be hidden under the now fading wrapping. Could it be a book, a photo of the two or even a now-crusty box of his favourite childhood chocolates? Although, when he thought on it, the feeling of seeing the timeless gold under his tree every year was a gift in and of itself. That was until his secret got out... After uploading a photo of their Christmas tree and decorations to Facebook, a simple throwaway comment from Auntie June typed up during one of her notorious “Christmas benders” pointing out the forty-seven-year-old present attracted the attention of the whole town. One tag turned into two, two into five, and very quickly the photo of the Gallagher’s Christmas tree had three hundred comments and over one thousand likes. Everyone wanted to know more about the ‘secret present’ and, most importantly, what was inside. By the time dinner was ready, the post had received close to five thousand comments from people all over the country who were now sharing the story and taking guesses at what could be inside. Hoping the buzz would die down the next day, Christine deleted the photo and the two retreated to their bedroom and fell asleep. Though, like wildfire spreading, the interest only doubled overnight. The next morning, Steve was awoken by Christine, who had a phone pressed against her ear. RPM News was calling, saying they wanted to interview him about the ‘secret present’. The deleted photo was circulating on news websites and blogs who were all asking the same question - what is inside? BuzzFeed had even created a list of "25 Things That Would Fit in the Secret Present". Annoyed and unsure how to navigate the unsolicited attention, Steve grabbed the phone and hung up. As he walked towards the kitchen to start the day, he noticed a small gathering of people standing on his front lawn waiting around with their phones in their hands. Puzzled, but assuming they must be a morning walking group, he ate his breakfast and ducked past the windows and into the garage. As the garage door opened and he backed down the driveway, he was met with cheers and waves from the crowd of strangers. Smiling and offering a confused wave, Steve headed for work. He was determined to go about his day as if nothing had happened but when he arrived, he was greeted by his coworkers as though he was a celebrity. Balloons and a cake with an unflattering photo of him and the words “Town Legend” decorated on it was sitting on his desk. Becoming frustrated, he began working the floor, hoping it would distract him. He approached a young man who said he was looking to buy his first car. Though strangely, the man seemed more interested in taking selfies with Steve than of the cars he was looking at. Realising the customer was only looking for one thing - that wasn’t a new car - Steve walked back into the office where he remained until he clocked off. The cake wasn’t bad. Steve and Christine both returned home from work and crawled to the sofa. Their pugs followed. Together, the dogs sighed and dreamed. But Steve and Christine could only sigh, long and deep. The buzz hadn’t died down, in fact it was only growing. Steve turned to Christine and Christine turned to Steve. Right. That’s it. Things need to change. RPM News was more than happy to help with that; so happy, in fact, that they sent around a reporter the following day. As he sat on the opposite side of their kitchen table, Christine noticed that his hair matched the colour of their lemon tablecloth. Steve didn’t like the way he smirked instead of smiled, that little curl to the lip. Shark-like. It felt very odd telling all the gory details of his life to a man he’d only just met. But it wasn't only his life he had to talk about. Her’s too. Speaking about a ghost makes it real - this mystery giver of the gift. Soon enough, the reporter had what he needed: a tragic backstory, a car crash, and a last gift of love. Golden Kelly, the reporter dubbed her. Whatever he called her, Steve was just happy to get that sleazeball out of his home. At least now, their lives could return to normal. Or so they thought. After RPM published the article, the story touched the hearts of people all over the country and, not all that long after, most of the world. In countries as far away as Slovenia, avid Golden Kelly fans recorded songs, edited Youtube videos and campaigned for Steve to open the present in memory of Kelly - who they learned tragically died in a car accident only three years back. The story had gone viral, and for the first time in almost forty-seven years, Steve missed Kelly and almost felt guilty for their breakup all this time later. As Steve’s story of his forty-seven-year-old unopened Christmas present went global, he found Christine becoming more and more distant from him. At first, she stopped engaging in conversations about the ordeal, then she demanded Steve throw the present away - she even threatened to take the pugs and stay with her mother for a while! Then came the break-ins. At first, the Gallaghers were woken by the sounds of voices and steps outside their house. Later on a window was smashed. People all over the world were claiming they wanted to steal the present to reveal what was inside and more and more people started visiting the house. The once humble and meaningful golden gift Steve had treasured for so many years was now ruining his life. The fear of a burglary, the constant abuse he received from people he had never even met, his inability to sell any cars without a small crowd taking selfies around him and the toll he could see it was taking on Christine was all too much. Steve contacted RPM News who offered a solution. ‘***Enter now to unwrap history!***’. It was plastered on every newspaper, magazine and website. One lucky winner would be given the opportunity to unwrap the ‘secret present’ live on television and finally answer the question that had captivated the world. The competition lasted only three days but received hundreds of thousands of entries that came from all corners of the globe. After a lifetime of being under wraps, Steve’s faded gold gift now had an opener - twelve year old Eliza Wood. On the day of the unveiling, #secretpresent was trending on every social network, and fans lined the windows of the RPM News studio hoping to catch a glimpse of the almost five-decade-old present. Christine joined Steve in the studio and held his hand in support - probably glad it was almost over. Steve, on the other hand, was agitated and would spend long periods with his eyes shut in deep thought. He didn’t realise how much the present truly meant to him until now - when the magic of it was about to be lost in front of the eyes of millions. It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Though knowing it was too late to change anything, he waited as the television presenters, the young competition winner and the crowds of fans counted down from ten. As each number was called out, Steve closed his eyes and could so easily picture the cold Christmas Eve he’d received it. He could hear the carollers and feel the frost of the snow. He felt the necklace in his pocket and saw the watery eyes of Kelly once more. Three seconds remained. The crowd scrambled at the windows, Christine took a deep breath. The scissors were raised, and the countdown finished. The young girl took a step forward, moved the scissors towards the faded gold wrapping and stopped. Everyone froze, and Steve opened his eyes. As the world looked on in stunned silence, the young competition winner placed the scissors down on the table and picked the present up and walked towards Steve. As everyone watched on in awe, the young girl handed the crinkled package to him and said, “I think you should open it”. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he held out his hand and took the present from the girl. Taking a final look down the lens of the studio camera and then towards Christine, who, with tears in her eyes as well, gave a nod of approval, Steve peeled back the loose sticky tape and unveiled his present - forty-seven years later. Inside the brittle golden paper was an empty white picture frame with a note attached that read, “Fill this with your life’s greatest memory. Merry Christmas, love Kelly”. \- - - It’s been two years since the magic of Steve’s ‘secret present’ touched the lives of millions around the globe. While he still does occasionally get recognised in the streets and at work, he and Christine did eventually get their wish of an ordinary life again with their two pugs. As for Steve’s forty-seven-year-old present, it can be seen standing next to his Christmas tree every year with his life’s greatest memory inside - a cut of the gold wrapping paper.