The Winterlands at night are freezing at best and lethal at worst, so of course they’re making Leif go on a Quest during the second sort, when half of his village’s population have beards beset by icicles and the other half are nursing a frostbitten toe in front of a blazing bonfire. “You bear the gift of the Walrus Belly,” reassures Torsten as he heaves at the oars, threading their rickety little boat through frigid saltwater. By the amber luminescence of a lantern powered by whale blubber, Leif watches his companion’s breath mist into the night and mingle with his own. “Gift of the Walrus Belly,” echoes Leif. “So, basically, the council of elders elected me for the job because I’m fat.” “You said it, not me.” Leif sighs, his breath shuddering past blue lips. Despite his... girth , he’s buried under three layers of clothing made from insulating sealskin, and even then the cold has pried each layer away like the fingers of an insistent lover. Not that Leif knows what that’s like. Leif the Loser, the other boys would chant back at home, because of course Leif would be the only one left without a girl during their drunken rampages through the village. Ludicrous Leif. Leif the Laughable. Limp-Dicked Leif. That last one cuts the deepest, especially when Chief Gorvald the Gruesome hears the boys say it and bursts out laughing, a mighty guffaw that’s more of a thunderclap than any sound a human can make. Sometimes he even joins in on the chanting. Is that why Leif had agreed to this fool’s errand? Is that why he’s freezing his balls off in the middle of Maiden’s Heart, the most unforgiving sea in the known world? (Because, of course, nothing is colder than the heart of a woman who refuses to sleep with a man, as they say in the Winterlands.) “I could be sat by a fire,” mutters Leif, “sipping hot broth and drinking elderflower mead.” “And miss out on something that comes around once every millenium?” says Torsten. “You’ll live to regret it, lad.” “Only if I make it out alive.” “Well, you won’t with that attitude!” The sea at night looks like molasses, thick and syrupy. Except there’s nothing sweet about it. Not when one dip below the surface would suck the warmth out of your beating heart and leave it stained purple with frost, unless you happen to be a blubbery narwhal, or a thick-skinned walrus. And suddenly the council’s reasoning is starting to make sense. Torsten drops the oars, and the boat eases to a rest. “Now, we wait.” “For what?” “For the River to show us the way, of course.” Leif wraps his arms around himself. He’s heard the legends, and wants to believe they’re true. But a river winding through the ocean? That doesn’t even make sense from a logical standpoint. Torsten extinguishes the lantern, plunging the world into darkness. A tiny shrimp trapped inside a whale’s mouth wouldn’t feel much different. “What was that for?” “There is only one light we need, Leif. All others will lead us astray.” Before Leif can mutter a remark about speaking in riddles, the sea comes alive with color. A huge, shimmering ribbon of light materializes just below the water’s surface, winding through the blackness and stretching out into the distance. A single skillful yet haphazard brushstroke, the sea as the canvas. While Leif’s jaw hangs off its hinges, Torsten grabs the oars and maneuvers the boat onto the ribbon. He follows the path laid out for them with pinpoint precision, even when it winds into itself, or takes them on a detour. “Take as long as you like,” says Torsten. “The River-in-the-Ocean is not something you swallow after a quick chew.” Because it is a river, as much as Leif’s calm sensibilities want to deny it, and the surrounding ocean serves as the riverbank. He can see it’s made of tiny glowing pinpricks that pulse intermittently with light, like stars that have lost their way and decided to live among the plankton. The colors cycle between every hue imaginable: greens and blues and reds, as if somebody had tossed all their jewellery into the water. It’s not the first time Leif has seen the ocean illuminate like this, but for it to form a clearly-defined path, as if the gods themselves are showing them the way, is something out of a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. The River-in-the-Ocean ends in a giant pool of glowing dots, swirling into itself to form a vortex that ever-so-gently pushes the boat in a circle. “We’re here,” announces Torsten. “You know what to do.” And Leif does, unfortunately, know what to do. All sense of awe gone in the blink of an eye, he ties iron weights to his ankles, then a rope around his waist, the other end of which is attached firmly to the boat. He perches on the gunwale, the small craft swaying under the unevenly distributed weight, and hesitates. “It’s just like I told you,” says Torsten. “All you have to do is let the weights pull you down until the Mermaid Queen finds you. Once she does, ask Her Majesty for her Divine Crown, which is said to grant the wishes of anyone who wears it. We’re not sure how you’re supposed to speak to her underwater, but all the legends say you have to make a request. Try using elaborate hand gestures, or maybe write it down on a bit of kelp. In any case, once the Crown is yours, simply untie the weights, then tug the rope three times in a rhythm so I know it’s you on the other end and not a shark.” He gives Leif a reassuring pat on the back. “It’s plain sailing. A six-year-old with lingonberry jam smeared across his face could do it.” “Thanks for the morale boost, Torsten.” “Anytime.” Leif stares at the swirling mosaic of colors before him and finds himself shivering like an earthquake, though not because of the cold. For a heartbeat he lets himself wonder whether his life really is miserable enough to go chucking it away. If he dies tonight, will the other boys sing songs of his valor, or will they laugh? He can already hear Chief Gorvald’s booming guffaw. “May the Storms strengthen your heart,” prays Torsten, which is nice of him but is also another way of telling Leif to get on with it already. It’s a bone-chilling night in the Winterlands when Leif takes what is probably his last breath and plunges into the water below. The cold is a fist to the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. He thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, which is when the water seeps through each layer of clothing like the root tendrils of a seedling, reaching into his flesh and squeezing the warmth out of every blood vessel. Everything is blindingly bright for a few heartbeats as glowing dots swirl around him, but it quickly fades as he’s pulled down into suffocating darkness. A dull weight presses in from all sides, and he’s sure his head is going to explode any second now, so he screams for Torsten to help him, only to get a mouthful of salty water. Burning. His lungs are burning in the darkness, quite ironic considering he’s never felt so cold in his entire life. And it’s in the darkness that a jeering song arrives, quietly at first but surging into a crescendo to fill his world: 🎵 Leif the Loser Born bigger than a humpback whale Leif the Loser The only Winterman destined to fail! Leif the Loser Lonely for the rest of his days Leif the Loser For no maiden will meet his gaze! Leif the Loser Can’t even hold a sword straight Leif the Loser Drowning was the poor lad’s fate! 🎵 Except he isn’t drowning. Leif gasps awake to find a world of inky blackness. His clothes are dry and his body is warm, at least, just like the sloping ground under his feet. It’s as if he’d never entered the water. He must be dreaming. Or dead. He unties the weights around his ankles and takes a few steps. A smooth, curved wall greets him on all sides; he can’t see it, but he can feel the glass-like texture kissing his palms. His enclosure. He finally scrounges up enough courage to call out. “Hello?” The only response is a dull stirring in the darkness, so faint that he isn’t sure if his mind is playing tricks on him. “Who goes there?” THIS IS NOT YOUR DOMAIN, LITTLE ONE, booms a voice. Leif is so surprised to be called “little” that for a second he doesn’t even register the voice’s lack of origin, as if it’s coming from every direction at once while at the same time blossoming from some secluded corner of his mind. A second after that, he grasps the implications of there being a disembodied voice in the darkness instead of a white light, or something else reassuring. Fear coils its grimy tendrils around his bones, but he wrestles them away and latches onto the only tangible thing he has left: Torsten’s instructions. “Are y-y-you the... the... M-Mermaid Q-Q-Queen?” The words lack impact, tripping over his teeth to come out stillborn and pathetic. But it’s as if the darkness can look past that to know what Leif wants to say. THERE IS NO MERMAID QUEEN, SMALL CHILD. Again, Leif has to blink the disbelief out of his eyes. He even pinches his own cheek to check that he’s still as chubby as he should be. Which, unfortunately, he is. NOR ARE THERE MERMAIDS IN GENERAL, continues the darkness. THEY ARE BUT A FABRICATION BORN FROM THE LUST OF LONELY VOYAGERS, HAVING SPENT TOO MUCH TIME AT SEA WITHOUT FEMALE CONTACT. Leif starts shivering again, all the cowardice of fifteen years spent being inadequate frothing at his seams. He had one job: retrieve the Divine Crown from the Mermaid Queen, and he can’t even do that. He really is a loser. But... wait. Why should he trust the voice? He supposes there’s not much else to trust when everything is pitch-black, and there is a fiery, robust quality to it that demands his attention, but still. He wants more than that. “If you’re not the Mermaid Queen,” begins Leif, the fear melting away like hoarfrost in spring as curiosity lends him confidence, “who are you?” NOBODY, replies Darkness. Their voice is an avalanche devouring a mountainside, the sort of harmonious medley of beauty and terror that only a natural disaster could conjure. And it’s neither male nor female, but something else, something less limiting. YOU ASSUME I CAN BE QUANTIFIED BY A SIMPLE “WHO”. TRY AGAIN, TINY CREATURE. PROVE TO ME YOUR LIFE WAS WORTH SAVING. Leif’s heart flutters. Whenever Darkness speaks, it’s as if the words are carved in stone, and reality molds itself around that ultimate truth. So, I am alive. For the time being. Leif swallows. He doesn’t want to go back to the cold, and what he says next may very well decide his fate. So he tries a different angle, hoping the truth will unmask itself in small increments that he’ll be able to piece together on his own. Which is easier said than done when he doesn’t even know what Darkness wants. “Why do you keep calling me ‘small’?” BECAUSE YOU ARE SMALL. Leif clenches his teeth. Fifteen years of ridicule, and he won’t let anyone tell him it meant nothing. Not even... whatever Darkness is. “I’m very sorry, but I’m anything but small. Back home, they’d sing songs to mock my size. During dinnertime, the other boys would dump their leftovers on my plate, then dunk my face in the slop while making walrus noises. One time, an avalanche started on a nearby mountain and the elders blamed me for it because--” -- YOU HAPPENED TO TRIP OVER A LOG AND LAND ON YOUR BUTTOCKS ONLY A FEW MOMENTS BEFOREHAND. “Yes, that’s exactly what...” That’s exactly what happened. But maybe Leif shouldn’t be surprised that Darkness knows. After all, he’s supposed to be dead, but isn’t. “You’re one of the gods, aren’t you?” Leif ventures. ONE DOES NOT HAVE TO BE A GOD TO SEE THAT YOU ARE SMALL. That didn’t even answer his question. Before Leif can insist that he’s fat all over again, the blackness surrounding him stirs. It tears open like a wound, banishing the gloom on the other side of the barrier for a giant, window-shaped opening. Leif looks through it, and watches a familiar rotund figure struggle to lift a battleaxe while a dozen onlookers throw their heads back and laugh. It’s a dagger to the heart. And it hurts so much that the pain trumps even the awe of witnessing what Darkness is capable of doing. “Why are you showing me this?” BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO SEE WHAT I SEE, LITTLE ONE. More windows materialize in the darkness, more moments in time that Leif has banished to the recesses of his mind only to be shown to him right now, clear as day. He grits his teeth through it all until it’s too much. “Please stop. With all due respect, I don’t know how you can look at all this and still see me the way you do.” THEN IT IS TIME TO TAKE A STEP BACK. The windows fade, only to be replaced by more. Leif has to squint to realize the fat boy he’s looking at isn’t him; someone from another tribe, perhaps, with fleshy jowls and a breathless, sweaty sheen to his person. Another window shows a different boy, one with fiery hair and freckles, curled in a puddle of mud as a mob hurls stones at him. A third window shows a skinny girl with skin the color of treacle and strange, robe-like clothes being spat on; she has pinkish-white patches of skin on her face that her tormentors don’t. Leif’s gaze darts from one window to the next, one sickening, unbearable moment to another. He wants to curl up just like the red-haired boy and pretend the world isn’t as cruel as it is. But he can’t tear his gaze away from all these people. He’s never seen them before, and most certainly hasn’t a clue what distant realm they’re from, yet he feels a curious sense of kinship with them all the same. An invisible thread, running through everyone and sewing the gaping hole in Leif’s heart shut. NOW DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? asks Darkness. Leif watches in awe as the red-haired boy unfurls and groggily gets to his feet after the mob has dispersed. His face is caked with mud and blood and his body hangs limp, but there’s a fire in his eyes that won’t be extinguished anytime soon. The dark-skinned girl wipes away her tears after her tormentors have left, then picks up a spear and, gritting her teeth, begins practicing behind closed doors. LITTLE CREATURE? prompts Darkness. I SAID, DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? Leif nods as his eyes well with tears. “I’m not alone,” he manages to choke out. AND YOU NEVER WILL BE. “But why? Why help me?” Darkness takes an uncharacteristic pause, as if carefully considering a response. HUMANS... THEY FASCINATE ME TO NO END. IT SEEMS TO BE A HABIT OF THEIRS TO GET BACK UP AFTER THE WORLD HAS BEATEN THEM DOWN. DO NOT THINK I AM HELPING YOU OUT OF MERCY OR COMPASSION, FOR I AM BEYOND SUCH MORTAL PHENOMENA. PEOPLE LIKE YOU, THE ONES THAT NO LONGER HAVE A REASON TO KEEP GOING BUT STILL DO, ALWAYS HAVE AN INTERESTING STORY TO TELL. AND MY ONLY WISH IS TO SEE YOURS UNFOLD, LITTLE LEIF. Leif supposes it’s better than no answer. In any case, he finds it amusing that a being like Darkness cares what he thinks of them. YOU WILL SOON BE SENT BACK TO YOUR DOMAIN. IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WOULD ASK OF ME? Leif wipes away the tears. “What do you... look like?” The windows fade, and then so does the blackness. Leif has his breath snatched away by the view: ice-blue, crystalline water as far the eye can see, filled with silver-scaled shoals of fish and vibrant-hued, gelatinous creatures he’s never seen before. He notices he’s inside a transparent, bubble-shaped enclosure, which keeps him in and the water out. A humpback whale passes overhead, and it’s a beautiful sight. HUMANS ARE OF THE LAND, says Darkness, BUT I AM OF THE SEA, AS ARE MY CHILDREN YOU SEE BEFORE YOU. SO THINK TWICE THE NEXT TIME YOU CONSIDER “WALRUS” AN INSULT. Leif’s vision begins to fade, and that’s when he knows his time is almost up. Part of him wishes he could stay here, with an invisible being that doesn’t discriminate between people. But he has to go back. For my people. “Thank you,” murmurs Leif, before everything goes dark. Leif’s eyes flutter open to find a blurry Torsten shaking him awake. “You did it, lad! I knew you had it in you.” He’s sprawled in the boat, and the River-in-the-Ocean must have faded because the only light source is the dim amber of a lantern. He coughs up seawater. “Torsten... what are you talking about?” Then Leif registers the cold metal his fingers are curled around. Is this a... crown? “How did you get the Mermaid Queen to hand it over? Oh, you must have a whale of a tale to tell...” Leif closes his eyes and savors the night air. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t feel like a loser.


This is beginning - Kinda like the Introduction He lay in the dark lighten crevice, while thoughts bombarded his troubled mind. He was cold and miserable and alone in the world surrounded by the void which challenged his weakening heart. All his aspirations had been stripped away from him and he had nothing remaining to bind him to life; too much a craven to do the final deed he sat in contemplation. I wonder what is wrong with me, why the faiths have chosen to punish me so? Bliss for too long had been absent from his abode, and he now began to realize that perhaps he would not be remembered, he realized the insignificance of a single individual. Sitting there alone he wished to himself that if only he could close his eyes and live in the legends of era past instead of the technological nihilism he was trapped in things would be different. His body ached from laying down, his eyes burned, he was ravished by famine, and yet lacked the will to get up even though he could easily solve these problems. The weight of his insignificance was cumbersome to him. The miniscule dwelling, he had managed to secure in city block 923 sector 7 was inadequately furnished, and lonesome but it was all he could afford. Crammed between several similar dwellings block 923 or as antiquarians might have called it floor 923 mostly consisted of disenfranchised. When he left the protection of his family a few years prior Scott had figured that this would only be a temporary lodging. He was under the impression that if he worked hard and concentrated all of his energy in advancing his knowledge that he would gain renown. Reality had stripped those ideals from him. Now he mostly lay in bed during the time he wasn’t laboring for credits wondering when things had taken a turn for the worse. These kinds of things aren’t supposed to happen to people like me. I was fated for greatness, I was special, wasn’t I? Perhaps not, the nagging voice in his minds ear replied. His home had no windows, only the grey aluminum walls. Grey walls reflecting on a grey soul tossed aimlessly to and fro upon a little mattress that passed for a barely adequate resting place. His body debilitated he dose off to the humming of the only other thing that in the room; the screen. And so were the on goings of Scott from Sector 7 Block 923... monotony. Forced to wake up to the insipid tune of the alarm, and pretend for his co-workers that everything was alright. Pretend that he was stable, and sound of mind. The façade held up, but behind those dull black eyes was a wearisomeness that only grew stronger, and as he sat there surrounded by screens, typing meaningless numbers, and answering pointless inquires it dawned on him for the millionth time like a strange deja vu I am surrounded by idiots and automatons, and his despair only grew larger. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who was feeling this sentiment. Dissention was growing amongst the sectors. Too many had already been disenfranchised by the rapid changes amongst the different sectors and it wasn’t clear how long peace would last. It hadn’t even been that many years and already things were falling apart.


It was a bright, beautiful, sunny day in downtown L.A. Multiple families, tourists, and vacationers were out enjoying the sunshine. The local markets and restaurants were filled with tons of people. The streets in the city were more crowded than ever. The local church, however, wasn’t nearly as crowded as the rest of the city. The Saint Pablo Church hadn’t had any new members since 2017. It's like the state of California had forgotten about their creator. One family that has always been consistent to come to church every Sunday was the Annalex family. Susan Annalex, mother of a young girl named Ally, was a common volunteer for the church. Whenever there was a fundraiser, Susan was always the first to show up and the last to leave. In 2008, she got married to Dave Zachary, a black father of a young boy named Xander. Xander was seven years older than Ally. In 2012, Dave and Susan had a daughter. While discussing what her name should be, Xander said that she should be named Heaven. When asked why he chose that name, he would always say “I looked at her face and saw Heaven. It was like an angel came down from above into our family.” Heaven always looked up to Xander. She loved him more than anything. The bond between Heaven and Xander was incredible. Since the day she was born, Heaven was always under a Christian influence. She was always talking about God and the Bible. She even convinced Xander to join the teen group at the church while Heaven and Ally joined the kids group. Heaven was instantly beloved by the church community because of her sweet, kind-hearted personally. When the Annalex family showed up on Sunday, the family split up. Susan, Dave, and Xander went to the main service, while Ally and Heaven went to the kids group. The theme of this service was about racism in America. This hit both Dave and Xander hard since they both had to go through racism before. “Racism had really been a real problem in the recent years of America.” said the pastor. “Within the last few years it has become increasingly dangerous to be black. Police brutally and racial profiling has risen to an all-time high. Especially in big cities such as L.A.'' Meanwhile In the children's group, Heaven and Ally were hearing a toned-down version of this. “It doesn’t matter at all about what your race or gender is, God loves you no matter what.” said the children’s pastor. Heaven then chimed in with her opinion. “That’s right! People need to just see people as people, not as black or white.” The pastor smiled. She was always impressed by Heaven's love for everyone. Heaven always loved helping the pastor talk about her subject. She always enjoyed telling people about God. The kids in the group also loved it when Heaven spoke. When church ended and the service was dismissed, Heaven and Ally went to meet up with their parents. When Heaven saw Xander, she became excited. Every sunday after church was over, Xander would always take Heaven to the playground at the church and play with her on the swing set. Heaven's laughter would always brighten up Xanders day. When the family arrived at the playground, there went only one or two other families there. Heaven didn’t mind that no one else was there. Xander was all that was needed to make Heaven happy. Heaven got into the swing and Xander started gently pushing her. Within a few seconds, Heaven started giggling. Xander then started pushing her a bit higher. She was laughing louder the higher she went. It was seemingly a perfect day. Suddenly, there was a huge screeching noise from behind the church. Everyone froze and turned to check out what was happening. There was a giant container truck that was starting to lose control. Without thinking, Xander scooped up Heaven and started running. Both Dave and Susan both grabbed Ally and also started running. Xander looked at the truck’s side to see that it said “Tungsten Technology Inc.” This meant one thing, that truck was carrying dangerous chemicals. The family quickly got to safety. Everyone was both scared and curious about the situation. Dave started explaining that the truck was carrying Wargun Zen, a dangerous chemical known to cause fatal diseases. Heaven spotted something in the path of the out-of-control truck. It was a young, hadicaped girl that had fallen out of her wheelchair and wasn’t able to pick herself up. Heaven knew that if she wasn’t able to get up, she would be crushed. She quickly started running toward her. “What in the world are you doing?” cried Xander. Heaven simply replied “What Jesus would do!” When Heaven reached her, the contents of the truck were spilling out. Thankfully, the truck had slowed down to a snail’s pace. This gave Heaven time to pick up the girl and carry her. But then, the fumes from the Wargun Zen started forming into a thick fog. Heaven started panicking upon sight of this. Her heart started beating like a drum. She started running as fast as she could, but the fog was right on her tail. Xander quickly ran to help Heaven. Heaven gave him the girl and he ran with her. But in the midst of this, Heaven tripped and fell. Xander Immediately stopped and turned to help Heaven, “Don’t worry about me!” Heaven shouted “Get her out of here.” Xander hesitantly went without Heaven as she was consumed by the fog. The last thing Heaven saw before she was consumed by the fog was Xanders worried face. When the family got home, Heaven went straight to the shower to get rid of any chemicals that may have gotten stuck to her body. While Heaven was getting cleaned up, the house was seemingly quiet for a while. Xander was really stressed out at the fact that he had just left Heaven in the mist. “It’s not your fault Xander.” Said Ally. “Yes, it is” replied Xander. “I should have known better than to leave my sister in the mist.” “But if it wasn’t for you, that poor girl would have died. I bet Heaven’s proud of that.” Right in the middle of this conversation, Heaven screamed at the top of her lungs. Everyone's heart stopped upon hearing her scream. Susan got up and spirited to the bathroom. Xander followed behind, but he regretted it. Heaven was covered all over with bright red blisters. She was covered in blood and was barely breathing. Susan screamed “Dave, call an ambulance. We need to get Heaven to the hospital.” Heaven was practically in tears at this point. Susan wrapped her up in a towel. The ambulance wasn’t slow to arrive. Heaven was loaded onto a stretcher and taken away. “Told you so.” said Xander at Ally, with tears in his eyes. Ally knew what Xander was feeling. He blamed himself for Heaven. Ally tried to say something, but she couldn’t get the words out. Heaven reached for Xanders hand, but she had little strength left. She passed out on the way to the ambulance. The family was at the hospital, awaiting the results from the doctor. It had been eight hours since they arrived. Heaven was still asleep, but she was breathing. Xander was cropped up in the corner. He wasn’t even able to look at her like this. Ally held Xanders hand in an attempt to make him feel better about himself. Then, the doctor walked in the room. “Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this.” said the doctor, right as everyone was bracing for the worst. “The mist that Heaven inhaled was a mixture of Wargun Zen as well as other toxic chemicals.” “So how bad is she?” said Susan. “I’m afraid that your daughter has gotten the Jaguar-Gen-38 virus. The virus currently has no cure.” Upon hearing this, Xander stormed out of the room, not wanting to hear how bad Heaven’s condition is. Ally followed him. When Xander saw that Ally was following him, he ran. Xander led Ally to a gas station next to the hospital. Xander was very upset that Ally followed him. Xander snapped at Ally and started yelling at her. Unfortunately, some cops nearby overheard the confrontation and proceeded to attack Xander, mostly because he was black. Ally was horrified at what was happening to Xander. Xander told Ally to run far away. Ally started running as fast as she could. Once she knew that she was clear, she carefully went back to the hospital. When she got back, Heaven was finally awake. Ally told the family what had happened. When Heaven heard this, she broke down into tears. So many bad things were happening to her in just a short amount of time. Both Dave and Susan were both sad and angry. They were upset that Xander had been brutally wounded by the police. Before they could mourn, a doctor came in and told the family that Heaven needs emergency surgery. Heaven was terrified. Susan desperately said a prayer before Heaven was taken away. It had been eight months since Heaven got sick. Heaven had given up on everything in life and was close to death. The doctors told Susan that there was nothing else they could do. The family went to see Heaven for the final time. Heaven was scared of death, but she knew that she couldn’t do anything about it. Heaven seemingly died surrounded by everyone that ever mattered to her. The family mourned at the sight of Heaven’s death. They stayed with her for three hours after her death. When they were about to leave, a miracle happened. The heart monitor attached to Heaven started beeping. Heaven then reached out for her mother’s hand and held it gently. Susan couldn’t have been more thankful. She fell to her knees and thanked the lord. It had been two weeks since Heaven came back to life. The doctors have found zero traces of the disease in Heaven’s body, questioning the doctors. When the church asked Heaven what happened to her when she was dead, she told an amazing story. “I had a vision that I stepped out of my body. I saw my family mourning me. I was scared. But then, I saw a man dressed in lightning, He reached out for me, saying that he loved me. That's when I knew I was safe. God told me that he will fix me because he has bigger plans for me.” Heaven was finally better. She slept peacefully and painlessly that night. She was safe.


It was chilly outside as Abigail walked down the street to where the local coffee shop was located. The leaves were bright orange and red color as they caught the breeze and floated to the ground. "Abby!" A female's voice called from down the street. Waverly jogged to where I stood. "Where are you going?" "The coffee shop, I heard they had new drinks out," I reply cheerfully. "Can I join you?" Waverly asks breathlessly. The few moments she jogged must have exerted her. A nod and we walk inside where the warm atmosphere of The Portly's Coffee Shop hit us both. A sign stood in the middle of the sitting area, listing all of the new drinks. Pumpkin spice chai tea, hot Carmel apple cider, maple cinnamon latte, pumpkin spice hot chocolate, and original hor chocolate. "What are you getting?" Waverly whispered as if we were in a library. "The hot Carmel apple cider sounds good," I said before walking to the counter and orders. "Hot chocolate," Waverly mumbles and gives a boy the money and I do the same. "Just plain hot chocolate?" I tease. She shrugged. Grabbing our drinks we went to a two-seat table was near the window. The shop wasn't big. A bookshelf lined one wall, three booths on another, the counter took up the other wall and a window where small tables were against. In the middle of the shop, there were bigger tables that seat more people, but I had never needed to use them since it was usually just me and my best friend, Brina. Waverly was my other friend, but we rarely ever hung out here. Autumn colored flowers rested in vases in the middle of all the tables, and Salem the pale orange cat sniffed at the ones nearest to us. "Hey kitty," Waverly crooned and reached out to scratch behind his ears. "Is something wrong?" I finally ask. She never came here with me and she despised animals with a passion. "No," she muttered. I shook my head slightly in disappointment before taking a sip of the hot drink. Carmel and apple burst among my taste buds as the drink made my belly warm. Closing my eyes with delight I almost didn't see Waverly's tears begin to fall. "Liar," I opened my eyes back up and grabbed her hands, forcing her to look me in the eyes. "What's wrong?" "Wesley broke up with me," a choked sob wracked her body and I got up to hug her. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know," I whispered against her hair. I was more attracted to girls, but I had seen that Wesley fit all of the stereotypes surrounding jocks. Brina and I had been too afraid to say anything when we saw how happy he had made her. "Here," reaching up, I grabbed an orange and black paper butterfly, one of many that had been dangling from the ceiling, and put it in her hair. "You're too beautiful to cry over someone like him, think of it like this, he was a cacoon and now you're free to spread your wings." Waverly sniffed and gave a small smile. "Thank you," she whispered. I nodded and sat back down to sip on my Carmel drink. "I heard the coffee shop was doing an art fundraiser," I changed the subject. "It goes to Save the Turtles, you draw a turtle and color it in autumn colors." Waverly's face immediately lit up. Drawing was her passion and there was no doubt she would win if she were to enter it. "It's a five-dollar submission fee, and the winner gets to go to the aquarium for free next month." "I'm entering!" Waverly said with some excitement, as she pulled out a small sketchbook from her purse and went to work. Thirty minutes later she held up a cute drawing of a baby turtle, shaded and beautifully colored with orange, brown, and red. "What do you think?" "The details are good," I replied critically. "Colors are amazing. It looks beautiful!" "Tha-" she began to say before a scream tore through her windpipe. A green spider had made its way onto the table and Waverly was bashing it with her sketchbook. "Everything okay over here?" The male cashier asked as he rushed over. "A spider," I rolled my eyes. "Or was a spider," a grimace at the spiders' guts, which was all over Waverly's once beautiful turtle drawing. "That looks amazing," the guy gently pried Waverly's fingers from the book to get a better look. "I'm guessing you're entering?" Waverly had gone quiet and gave a subtle nod. "Name's Landon," he greeted before setting the book down. After a few awkward seconds, I introduced both of us. He gave a grin at Waverly before leaving. "You can't tell me you didn't notice," I say pointedly taking another gulp of my chilling cider. "Notice what?" "He was totally into you!" I sputter with surprise. Usually, she was the one trying to set me and Brina up, but now it was my turn. "Even if he was, I'm still in love with Wes," she whispered agonizingly. "Wes is probably gay and used you as a cover-up," I say sourly. She gave me an astonished look before getting up and leaving the shop. I sat there, shocked, before giving a huge sigh. "Candy corn?" A girl asks as she takes Waverly's now-vacated seat. "It always helps me when I have friend troubles." Her hair was an Auburn color, freckles lined her high cheekbones, and brown eyes gazed at me warmly. "It's fall minus well gain some pounds," I laugh and grab a hand full of candy corn to stuff in my mouth. "Thanks," I smile at her. She had to be the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen in my life. We sat there in comfortable silence for a while before I got the courage to ask, "Want to go to the pumpkin patch this Saturday?" "Deal," her eyes lit up with excitement. "By the way my name is Hazel." "Abigail," I whisper as I slowly began to fall in love in the autumn coffee shop.


It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. *♫ Jingle bell, jingle bell ♫* *♫ Jingle bell rock- ♫* *♫ Snowin' and blowin' up bushels of fun ♫* *♫ Now, the jingle hop has begun- ♫* Goddamn this song. What an especially stupid rendition of an already-atrocious song. The stupid beach guitar made mubydram feel like he was stuck on an overcrowded beach somewhere. The same stupid riff over and over again with the same douchey vocals. These motherfuckers can’t even wait until Thanksgiving to start playing Christmas music, he thought. mubydram was trying to fill packaged chicken but of course, with the holidays right around the corner, and with the chicken aisle being adjacent to the ham aisle, the aisle was packed with carts and panicked and edgy customers and their noisy families. One particularly shrill noise was emanating from a cart containing a toddler crying to his mom for his phone. Unbelievable, mubydram thought. This kid can’t be bothered to pick up a book and read something and instead he wants a damn phone. No wonder this society is becoming illiterate. And he was getting louder and more shrill too. The mother of course was distracted on her damn phone as well, presumably asking her husband what kind of ham to get. They’re all the same damn hams, lady. Just pick one! If she could just move her damn cart and shut her stupid kid up, mubydram could finish stocking chicken and get the fuck off the sales floor and back into the sanctuary of the cutting room. The kid kept crying and finally let out a shriek. Heads turned, and his mother finally turned her attention away from her phone and toward her son. She called his name sharply and he stopped for a moment. She turned away again back to her phone call. Finally some relief, mubydram thought. Nope, he started crying again. mubydram stopped stocking and turned to look right at the kid, dead in the eye. It wasn’t a nice glance. In fact, it was a mean old eyefuck. A look that said, “You better shut the fuck up, kid, if you ever want to celebrate Christmas ever again.” And that kid’s heart sank. You could see it in his eyes, as if he suddenly learned that there are much worse things in life than not having his phone. He started wailing. mubydram grinned and turned back to stocking and the mother turned back toward her son once more. She was finished with her phone call and gave her phone back to her son. He kept crying. mubydram finished up and started collecting boxes. The mother was confused why her son was still crying. She looked at mubydram and he greeted her with a big smile and in his customer service voice, “Hi! Find everything alright today?” She replied that she had and mubydram pushed past with his cart and wished her a happy holiday. It was a look that really said, “Happy holidays, you fuckers. I’ll be here working.


The Essence Of Time--George Davis I was on a train traveling from Boston to Portland, Maine late on a Thursday afternoon. The car was packed with leaf-peepers heading to photograph and enjoy the beautiful, multi-colored leaves of red, orange, yellow, and green fall foliage. As I sat in the dining car drinking my third cup of coffee and staring out the train’s window. I was lost in thought when a young lady, I guessed, in her late twenties sat down. “Do you mind if I sit here, mister?” “Not at all. It is nice to share a table with so young, and may I say, pretty girl?” “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Are you going to Maine, miss?” “Yes, Saco. I’m home from a break in my classes at BU. I haven’t been home in quite some time.” “So you have parents in Saco?” “A mother. My dad died five years ago.” “Does your mom work?” “No, she doesn’t have to. Dad left her well off. He was president of Hinton Shoe Factory in Biddeford.” “That’s nice. I’m sure your mother will be glad to see you.” “I’m not too sure. You see, I am going to tell her I am engaged to marry.” “She should be happy for you.” “I hoped she would be, but it’s who I am engaged to that she won’t like.” “Oh, are you going to marry an ax murderer?” She smiled. “No, I’m engaged to a police officer in Saco. So far, I’ve kept it from her, but today I shall have to break the news to her and pray she doesn’t go to pieces. You see. My mother is very emotional, one of the things that used to bother daddy. He was so straight-laced, sober, but very fair. Mother, not so much.” “My name is Oswald Googins,” I said. “They call me Ozzie.” “Barbara Owens.” “Nice to meet you, Barbara.” “Same here, Mr. Googins.” “Ozzie.” “Okay. Ozzie.” The afternoon went quickly as my beautiful guest and I conversed. “So, Barbara, do you intend to return to Saco after school?” “I have three more months, and I’ll have my degree. Then I plan to get married and live in my hometown unless I can convince my husband to find a job many miles from my mother. Don’t think badly of me, Ozzie. My mother wants to be in command of my every move. She’s been like that since I can remember.” “I hope you and your future husband the best of luck in the future, Barbara.” “Thank you.” The conductor said we were an hour from Old Orchard Beach. I, with Barbara, was enjoying another cup of coffee and a bag of potato chips, an odd combination I know. But when I eat chips. I like a beverage as well, and today; it's java. “Do you drink much coffee, Ozzie?” “More than I probably should, four or five cups. That black, rich brew gives me the get-up and go I need every day.” “I learned in my studies, coffee is a stimulant.” “There you see. I knew it was a healthy habit.” "But it is also a depressant that can lead to panic attacks, anxiety, and even loss of sleep.” “I am aware of the side effects, and I do sometimes feel the effects of the caffeine.” “You know you can substitute some herbal teas. For instance, Chamomile tea is a calming brew with no side effects.” “I can’t drink tea. When I was a young lad, many years ago, my mother would give me tea to drink when I had an upset stomach. You can only guess what the results of drinking that golden liquid was. And, to this day. I cannot drink tea.” “Hey, Ozzie look at those beautiful maples with their reds and yellows. There is nothing like God’s paint strokes on His creation.” “You are right, Barbara. The scenery is magnificently displayed, showing God’s handiwork.” “Old Orchard in twenty minutes,” the conductor announced. “Well, Ozzie I’ll soon be getting off this train. I just want to say. It has been a wonderful trip. I have enjoyed our talks immensely. You are such a kind man, easy to talk to.” The trees along the railroad tracks with their bright colors were, along with meeting Barbara, the most desirable part of my trip. As Barbara exited the train, she turned and smiled, waving her small, lily-white hand. I waved in return. I shall miss that wonderful young lady. I can only hope and pray her life is full of love and happiness. I watched as she stood waiting for her luggage. Coming up behind her, I saw a tall, handsome man in a police uniform tap her on the shoulder. She spun around and the two kissed. I could almost see the stars in their eyes light up. I shall never forget this train ride when I met Barbara Owens in the dining car. It shall ever be considered my finest hour. When we were nearing the station where Barbara got off the train we both took a few minutes to take in God’s wonderful landscape: tall, colored tree leaves matching the green fields, and as if waving good-bye to us, the grass swayed in the afternoon breeze. It was a picture of grace and beauty. I could not tell you the ecstasy that, at that time, welled up in me like a hot flowing lava stream. My heart was on fire. Barbara’s beauty and God’s magnificent glory shining forth through His handiwork. It was the best day of my life as I watched Barbara exit the train. I said, “There goes my everything, all that I have ever wanted in life. I got off the train in Portland and drove home to an empty house. But, I thought. I was glad I’m me with all my ups and downs. I still have a roof over my head, food in the Pantry, and Goldy my orange in a bowl swimmer. “Good night, Goldy. Pleasant dreams.


Imagine you are an immortal chimp working to support your chimp family. Your chimp wife and children need the money. One day your chimp children will go to college and support you and your chimp wife when you are too old to work any longer. It's truly the perfect chimpanzee dream, just like the movies. You work in a never ending cycle of tippity tapping away on a keyboard. You're not alone, you are surrounded by a seemingly endless supply of fellow simian laborers, all typing just the same. Work consists of pressing buttons and submitting a plethora of unreadable garbage to meet the yearly quota. Life is good, it's easy work. One day, management decided to make better use of you and your ape compatriots. You are assigned with one task and one task only; write the entirety of Shakespearean literature. You can exit the building only when you have completed your assignment. Sounds time consuming but simple, right? Wrong. Your small chimpanzee brain can not yet process the meaning of the strange symbols on the keyboard in front of you. You try to quit, “I can't write Shakespeare!” All that comes out is incoherent screeching and wailing. You are quickly escorted back to your seat at gunpoint and reprimanded for your behavior. Surely the other apes have something to say about this new turn of events? No, your ape coworkers are seemingly unbothered and continue to smash their keyboards. You panic, you haven't had to exercise your brain in decades. Now they expect you to write full english sentences? Internally screaming, you type frantically and randomly across your keyboard in hopes that you may get lucky and write a legible sentence or two. You won't, at least not for another couple of eons. Only now do you survey your surroundings, desperate for a way out. The door, locked. How about the windows? Seems like you never looked up from your computer for long enough to realize there ARE no windows. Maybe the ventilation shaft? Bolted and secure. Maybe you can break the door down? Nope, the years of endless office work has shriveled your body into a husk of its former self. You can barely support the glasses you wear on your head, let alone a steel door. Looks like you're out of options. The chimps alongside you work diligently and happily, unaware of the dire situation. You try typing, for only a bit. The constant mistakes and deletion of your hard work grinds you down. You work for hours at a time for zero gain. The end is nowhere near in sight. Only now does it truly dawn on you your situation. You sit down and cross your arms in protest. You will refuse to work until they let you see your family! Except, no one ever comes. What's one monkey refusing to work in a sea of countless others who work with no complaints? Eventually, you lose all hope and spend countless decades, even centuries, doing absolutely nothing. Time truly has no meaning when you are immortal. Luckily your small ape brain is easily entertained by throwing assorted objects around the room and screeching at the top of your lungs. Even that however, gets old eventually. One day this repetitive cycle ends. An announcement, over the intercom. “Chimp #72938403 has completed his work. Congratulations!” You are dumbfounded. Chimp #72938403 waltzes over to the exit doors. You seize this opportunity and make a break for it. You see the outside world. You see sunlight again. Just as quickly as you gained your temporary freedom, you lose it again. You are thrown back into the endless cubicles of your workplace. Seeing a fellow monkey make his way out of this hell, it determines you. “If he can do it, I can do it!”, you think. You must get to work if you ever wish to live again. Despite the overwhelming odds against you, you begin. You imagine your loving family’s embrace after you finally conquer the dreadful workload. “It will all be worth it in the end”, you tell yourself. Yet, you have a creeping thought in the back of your mind, “will there be an end?” Time passes, slowly you see yourself make progress. Another announcement, yet another ape has regained his freedom. This drives you to work harder than before, soon you will be free. Yet more time passes. Another announcement, and another, and another, and even more. The ape to your left leaves you, then the one to the right. Soon enough, you are completely alone. What did you do to deserve this divine punishment? You weep, your keyboard getting soggy. Yet, you type. You stop thinking. One day, you do it. You place the period on the last sentence of the last book of Shakespeare. You can't believe it. You don't believe it. You get up and head for the exit door. Locked. Confused, you yell out into the open air. The voice on the intercom starts speaking. You erupt into celebration. You are free. He says, “Three Witches, act one, scene one.” What? What does that mean? You rush to your computer and scan through your work. Oh god. You read aloud, “Fair is fpul, and foul is fair.


Lin blew her lies... You talkin ́ ́to me, hu? At that point Lin came up with an assumption, that British people were mighty high up. She, Lin that is, had no single clue at first of how to get rid of it. Rid off it, the problem itself? That Aristocratic lady, Mrs Willfear, was a nobility of seldom seen stardom. In Lin ́s Sweden the hight and mighty came closer to being more pragmatic than lofty. So she had to face the issue in another turn of the screw. Heck it! Of course Picasso had it written down: ”Art is a lie that force you to see reality...” So now we have to tap into the lies to get to the several British conclusions. Lin sat in that humid and hot, not to mention it, the very British classroom up somewhere, far from Denver, further off from Pennsylvania Road, but pretty close to the moors of Yorkshire. Oh, you must boast about having been mad in this remote place, where everyone comes and everyone goes. Lin started making up stories about this and that and her and him. At a point in the plot the hat bowed its head down to the gutter, and that is a mise an etyme, or how is the figure of a word would you suggest? Lin was no scholar, and was no material for the high court. She was only Upper Middle Class in Sweden and now she faked class. She faked it so well in that Scarborough place that a cloak made of no seam came to be hung around her white shoulders. Is that a fake? Lin had to pretend being a Working Class. It began with something that could have turned out to be a debate, cause Lin had read all the reviews in the evening papers that had showed how the wet stone sharpen the knifes, the very tool in a hot debate. But hot is closer to Britain than to Sweden. Anyhow. Pretending no-rule-for-men meant that she had to stand out for no reason at all... We have simply to express the Swedishness. There is an unwritten law in Sweden: ”Don ́t believe too much about yourself...” Have you ever been abroad you might understand. It is that in a foreign place the very near and dear land of yours come so close it could tip you in just about any abyss on any map. So Britain compared to Sweden had to join in several seldom seas...Viking you know! Sitting there as Working Class meant that Mrs Willfrear, the one, had to point out things in all and each direction. Lin took the bait at the top of it, swallowed and got fat in a brilliant second of now time at all. Big lie, isn ́t it? She had no job, or had a stupid kind of job. And she was a kind of a pink rose. That is having been raped it got her to the worst nightmare of all: Love was a joke to a bloke in town! And Mrs Willfear had a vision about being the high ranked when it came to poetrie. She blew the nose when teaching how to behave and how to sit and how to shake hands. And it was all and everything with this high dame that was a curse. The nobility in Britain is highest ́mong seven different Continents, which is a tale as tales go. She was amused and used to faking with her passion. She had for a reason or two been married to a cultivated man. And now her shame was hidden off the course on the road to Mandalay. Off in a remotest place, where the game of Colonialism had started. Which meant in the end that all stories about it all had to be shaped in seven different angles, with squares and with round-abouts and with different tale-tellings that combined the figure three in one. A lie within a lie within another form. Screw my ball-of-the-eye, she yelled, this Lin. My whitest eye-balls. Funny to be spoken like that. Fun of a pun. Working-Class Lin had to get hooked on the discussions, saying null and nothing. Her idiom was bought and sold off the coast in Stockholm. Her hips no more. Her tits could never more be. But a lie on the top of the glass-mountain was a rare fable in a history of Swedish people. So. Her dad was a man selling clothes. Nothing else. Now, apart from Lin, our conclusion of the moral is - see? Mrs Willfear had lies down her DNA. It was dioxyribonacid-whatever! At that school, in that very classroom she taught manners of how to overcome each and any prejudice. So she had to sell lies everyday at that very place. See? Going around in the streets of your mind every day, every week, every godamn minute bring about lies to every occupied person out there. So Lin picked up Mrs Willfears tools, as Lin, being born in Sweden, having Polish and Sicilian ancestry, she ? She was prone to learn an idiom and an idioticism, right in the face of the mighty High-borners. Every day at that spot Mrs Willfear gave room for ideas to every student. Her feminine touch had to lie, because that stiff upper lip was related to castles and mansions that no other country could boast and brag about. Every day a feminine lie, hiding behind the persona of a Scorpio. Where was the point in teaching Lin that - oh, how very much Working-Class you are little silly girl! She taught Lin how to behave, how to dress, how to talk in a proper manner. She taught with the signum of a dear lie. Her tales run wild thinking about letting out people with a Cambridge exam afterwards. So Lin stole that paper of an exam. The rest was haunting her down the British lane, because she had to lie about being a someone without any moral. See, the moral was a hardcore value up in Sweden. But values in Britain was their biggest lie. Or all those lies going in an export trade from harbour to port, from port to harbour. What could Mrs Willfear learn in the end of the tale? In her very own fable? Suddenly all pieces fell together in a fable, more so cut in an American mode, up the Pennsylvania road. The day the British people came to know that Shakespear had a spear of a lie, they had to begin to adress the blacks with no more than truth. A stiff upper lip among the nobility was a game, a joke, a choke in the gutter of it all. Sad, bad and mad sat Lin up in a lonely Sweden pondering about how to roam the seven seas, chasing after her one and only enemy. No, Lin should ever never again talkin ́ shit about her Viking mum. It would have dragged out her brain, for sure. But somewhere deep inside she felt a cruel wish. To let Mrs Willfear ́s lies being told in an English, let us call it British, mode. Tell it with no hooked feeling. Telling it in a distance that a lie comes after you. As Sweden says: ”What is hidden in snow comes up in thaw...” If you think low about someone without the correct manner or the correct speech, then all of a sudden comes the next year when all snow turn into April ́s bitter flakes. And Mrs Willfear had to face her own culture this time. It is no lie that weather and wind is a hard fact today, better understood in Russia, America and Sweden. Burning forests came about in the wake of the Colonialism. And Colonialism had to sell lies on the market to godamn everyone. But sometimes when there is a sad sunshine in Lin ́s eyes and high on the sky, she come to think about being Working-Class. It was a cruel game, but it held a sceptre in its hand. It was no lie at all that her mother came from them. Pooor, but never starving. Her lie had turn out to become a treasure. To having learnt British gave her backbone a way to sit, in a lofty manner. And her stiff upper lip lost its way to address the people. But back in Yorkshire there was an attic with a madness. From a famour novel, one can tell. With a famous novel that taught you should never keep madness hidden on the attic. Mrs Willfear ́s lies had turned into a moral of the plot. Her lie was a poem, an object on the Literary market. It was a poem about Lin, a lie about everything Lin had said and done. And the poem sold and become so famous that a Viking bay came up to the high level of a Viking crew. A Fantastic poem about a girl. And one day the world will figure out who it was addressing. A poem about a poet in her own right. Lin is, yes, writing her own stories. In British of course. The conclusion: Never tell lies in a British mode just to teach a language to the low girls!!! The lowest one who learnt British lies in a queer mode could beat out the words in a manner of a Swedish style. And high up there is just sun up to us all. We need some stormy weather. We need a man to turn the history back in order of our Earth ́s Nature. Perhaps with honesty this time. Or rather we might need a Black Vice-President who adress facts and figures - in English! One might wonder if the President of the Unites States bring back facts - with an English language? This might be no lie this time...


It was a bright and extremely hot Monday morning. Shielding his eyes from the unrelenting sunlight accompanied by heat threatening to burn the hair on his head, he soldiered on towards the towering building looming ahead. The pavements seemed to be absorbing all the heat as they enveloped him in an embrace that felt like he was bathing in a volcano. Once again his poor planning had got the best of him and he was penniless forcing him to walk all the way to his destination. “Damn! I hope my armpits don’t just pour open, “ he thought to himself taking a quick sniff in his armpit. What had seemed like a short stroll that would not make him break a sweat turned out to be a lot further than anticipated. He stared at the tail lights of a beautiful, brand new Mercedes-Benz that whizzed past him even before he could turn his head fully to admire it’s beauty. It was at that moment that he realized to his dismay that he had made his seemingly accurate calculated guess concerning distance while he was sitting in the back of a taxi moving at full speed. Nonetheless, he marched on with a confident gaiety stride that reflected none of his personal woes or internal turmoil. Donovan cursed silently under his breath as he stumbled over a stone that left a visible mark on his not so well polished shoe. Stooping to fix the dent on his attempt to look immaculate, he instantly felt light headed and two stepped off the road desperately trying to fight the feeling that held him in a hostile grip threatening to drag him into the underworld. Donovan allowed himself a little smile. Nothing was going to deter him from making it to the interview for a job he so desperately needed despite the activities of the previous night. He smiled fondly at the memory of consciously making a bad decision to have subsequent shots of Tequila and Jaeger in an utterly pointless competition with a stranger who turned into a best friend the very night they bumped into each other. The stranger had turned out to be the son to a prominent politician in the country. What was important about that was his struggle to shine under his father’s shadow. A struggle Donovan knew all too well and could easily relate to. It was refreshing to know he wasn’t alone in the fight for independence and individual identity. In his defence how was he supposed to know that he would be called for a job interview so soon. The economy was so screwed up it took months to get any feedback. Life outside his comfort zone had been full of unexpected and consistent struggles. “How come there’s nothing free?” He often wondered to himself. “You literally have to buy everything from the food you eat, transportation all the way down to the line you hang your clothes on,” Donovan complained to himself. One of the many lessons he was learning the hard way ever since he made the headstrong decision to become independent was how tough life actually was. However, this was a welcome challenge to the determined young man who took it all in as a life lesson. Being the last born in a highly authoritative family was way more of a strain than a few bills which could be handled with a proper plan and budget. Donovan was tired of being controlled by principles and philosophies that were clearly not doing the family any good. The level of dependency was too high and no-one was allowed to nurture their personal ambitions. It was a one size fits all situation. All were expected to go to school, get good grades become a Doctor an Engineer or a Lawyer. Not that there was anything wrong with that, the issue was the compatibility of the plan and the intended audience. Donovan had an uncle who was nothing short of phenomenal at playing soccer. The crowd in his community was always more interested in watching him play than the rest of the team who were reduced to a supporting act. It was a small price to pay because you were guaranteed victory. Uncle Vincent literally needed an exorcism from the spirit of soccer that possessed him. He adapted to all roles on the pitch with ease and unrivalled sportsmanship. Much to everyone’s surprise, Vincent's skill was looked down on and any scholarship offers to groom him into a full-time professional were instantly rejected by his parents on the basis of the offers not proving to be able to stand the test of time. Simply because his path was unique it was discarded. Uncle Vincent over time succumbed to depression, he picked up nasty petty thief habits that often made Donovan’s mother who happened to be his sister burst into tears. Donovan was young but vividly remembered all the grief she suffered silently on her own.” I will never drink alcohol in my life or smoke anything,” he would often vehemently say to himself and declare to others. During his High school he was an active member of church and spent most of his time doing Christian activities. All in an effort to be different and make his mother proud. That was not the case now. He often joked about how he ended up being worse than all the people he endeavoured to surpass on a moral scale. In spite of it all he had decided he would keep his new found bad habits but with restraint. Combined with his decision to study a course outside the family expectations and his new found love for bad vices Donovan had become quite unpopular among his relatives. It left him vulnerable and further exacerbated his situation. Nonetheless, the sun shines on us all. The gods were not impartial to Donovan, he managed to graduate with a distinction much to everyone's surprise. He even got a job shortly after. Life was suddenly going great for the black sheep of the family and he soon became quite popular among peers and family members alike. This was the impetus that gave him the courage to move out of an all expense paid shared apartment with his cousins. A move which was shockingly received with heavy criticism, no one ever dared to venture out on their own. Nothing could stop the momentum of this new found man he was growing into. He loved the freedom that independence came with in his own little apartment. Even The process of finding the house was fun. Donovan and his workmates took a drive around town with an agent they had found on social media. They settled for a secure apartment exactly the right size for him. The yard had a series of identical apartments all painted blue. They had neat little flowers growing at the porch. The lawns were quite small but well maintained with a perfect carpet of grass. It gave off the vibe that it was a secure and decent place to live and raise children. Donovan despised the fact that he would have to squat in a bath tub but that was a small price to pay. There was barely any space between the toilet and bath tub however it was only his problem alone and no one else. The kitchen wasn’t perfect. It was small and had wooden beams and boards that looked better suited for a thatched house in a rural area. The sink pipes needed some work done because a few drops of water escaped and seemed likely to make a small puddle if left unattended to. On the bright side the rest of the house was perfect. White tiles adorned the moderately sized living room floor and bedroom as if it were reflecting the smiles of angels gazing upon it. He took in the sight with a huge grin knowing that the short falls would be a bargaining chip to reduce the price of rentals. Life had become difficult upon the loss of his previous job a month ago and it was necessary to take every opportunity as if it were the last. As he approached the company building, the air even felt cleaner Donovan was already happy to have such an opportunity. As he approached the large gate, his eyes marvelled at the large writings. “éxito- Definite Success” was written in bold blue letters over a red brick Wall. As if those words were placed there just for him his faith only grew stronger. Donovan proceeded to open the wide glass door that was architecturally placed right below the company’s name. A beautiful lady in a pink satin dress sat right in front of him. Her eyes appeared to have been cleaned by silk pearls. The white glistened from her Cornea as if life itself worshipped her existence. “Why now?” he thought. If God was tempting him he would be glad to fail as if he hadn’t had enough distractions throughout his journey. She smiled a smile enthralling he was taken aback. The lovely red ribbon that formed her lips revealed a dazzling set of teeth.“ Good morning. You must be Donovan. Please take a seat.” She motioned with her hand in a graceful movement directing him towards a sofa fit for top executives. “Mr. Carlos and his panel will see you in a moment.” Her voice was so angelic. “Was she singing or speaking?” he asked himself as he walked towards his seat still bewildered by the lady who seemed to be in her mid twenties. Barely 10 minutes had passed before he was ushered into a conference room. The dark hard wood floor echoed his steps as he proceeded to a chair that had been placed at the far end of a large rose wood table fit for Kings to dine on. Donovan sat down and raised his eyes to finally see the panel set before him. “Good morning. Welcome to éxito. We are glad to have you.” The first speaker demanded respect and from his tone and demeanour it was evident that this was Mr. Carlos, the man he was meant to impress before the rest of the panel. The questions immediately began to pour out and Donovan ensured that he was calm before each response to ensure that he always appeared confident. As he responded to all the questions he thought deeply of what he would expect to hear on the other side as an interviewer. The team appeared pleased but there was one lady. She barely smiled and she had a follow up question for each of his responses. However, Donovan felt that as long as Mr. Carlos liked him, he had achieved his goal. The rest was in God's hands.


We all have plans, right? We want our lives to be the way we wanted. But hardly ever that happens! “I am really worried about you dear. How long are you going to do this job?” My mom’s voice was quiet and heavy. She has been this way since I left my hometown. I know she doesn't like this. She always wanted me to start my own business in Nashville but I wanted to start a new life in a big city. I am from a small town and I do love my place, but when you want to finish your debt as fast as possible, a big city like Brooklyn only comes to my mind. I just want to get rid of this debt as fast as possible. “You are hearing me, right?” When we grow up, our mom thinks we are still in school. She worries the same way she used to when I would leave for school, which was a five-minute ride from home. “Sorry, mom. I am at work,” I said as I wore my apron. I hate this because it's so tight, and sometimes I cannot breathe. It has my name and the cafe’s name on it. It's custom-made in rose gold color. Whenever mom asks me how long I am going to do this, I seriously don’t have an answer. Getting a job is easy here. But a job that will pay all my bills? It's really hard. It’s been three months and I am still stuck at this job. “I have started sending my application. So fingers crossed.” I stacked the dishes and waited for my order to arrive. I have a morning shift here at A Cup Of Joy. It's 7 am and I have not yet had my coffee. “Mom, are you there?” I stopped my work and waited for her to reply. When I was in Nashville, it was easy to look after her. I know she is not old yet. She married quite young and she is in her early 40s now but still, if she doesn't pick up my call, I’ll be calling my neighbor to check on her. She is active and in good health but sometimes I worry about her. I never thought I would have to leave her alone like that. “Yes, yes. I am okay.” I heard the door open. It's old and makes a squeaky sound. It’s scary when you are alone in the house and it's raining outside. I still have memories of living alone at my place. Many people in Nashville always used to ask me and my mom about how we lived in this old house all by ourselves. They think it's haunted but actually, we never felt that way. I have stayed a good 20 years of my life there and it's the best place I know. “Mom?” I could hear some voices in the background. I think she is talking to someone. We live in an amicable neighborhood. It’s a very common thing to visit each other’s place throughout the day. I am not surprised that she had a visitor at this time of the day. “It's Miles here. He came to help me out in the garden. You wanna talk?” I bit my lips because it makes me nervous to talk to him after the incident. It’s been so long since the last time we talked. Although I have known him throughout my life, the incident back then is making me nervous. “Hey hi, Josie.” His voice was looking normal now. “Hey, how are you?” I asked, trying to be as normal as possible. “Fine... actually really okay now. Better than before.” He was as nervous as I was. He was hesitant to talk to me. “My mom’s still there, right?” I know when my mom is around, we can't talk openly. “Yeah, yup.” He paused for a while. “Hey, is Lizzy there?” he asked. I almost forgot that Lizzy hasn't updated her relationship status yet. “She has got a boyfriend here, Miles. I am sorry.” “Oh wow!” He gave out a short laugh. “The world is moving faster than I expected. And here I am still in the same place.” I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for him. “Hey, Josie. Would you mind taking my place? I have to drop Ben to school?” I looked back and Ava was cleaning some stains from her apron. Her name was written in Purple sparkle. “Yeah sure. Hey Miles, would you mind if I call you later?” “Yeah. No problem.” “Tell mom I’ll call her tomorrow. It's my holiday.” “Okay, I’ll tell her. Goodbye, Josie.” “Take care, Miles. I hope things will turn out in your favor this time.” “I hope that for you too, Josie.


I'm not even sure where to start. This last month has been one that I wish I could erase from my memory. I wish I could just abandon all reason and crawl back into denial, but there's no denying the wreckage that stands before me. The bodies strewn on either side of the street, and the rivers of blood that run forth from them. And so here I stand before what will surely be my final moments. I draw what would be my last breath as I charge forward, running towards what you may perceive to be a honorable death. You would be wrong. This is no act of courage, this is an act of cowardice. Everyone I know is dead, my wife, my children, my friends, everyone. I'm charging forward because I don't have the courage to continue to fight, because death seems so comforting next to the alternative. Massive hands wrap around me, crushing me, and the last month replays through my mind like my own personal horror show. Exactly one month ago the human race met God. He was not loving, he was not gracious, and he sure as hell wasn't forgiving. But he was powerful. Beyond belief. He created us in seven days, and washed away our filth in less than thirty. Now I stare into the face of our creator, and an inferno stares back. It sears and burns away my clothes, and I'm naked before him. My frail body breaks, and cracks in the palm of his hand under the weight of every sin I've ever committed. One unintelligible word breaks forth from his mouth like a tidal wave ripping away my flesh in its wake. My eyes roll back into my skull as I fade from light. I have no idea how long I was out, or if I'm even still alive. I'm writing this now only in an attempt to cling to sanity for a while longer. I think I'm dead. I think I'm dead. I'm dead, and this must be hell.


Once more he set on the trail. The smell of pine and the brown tint of the forest were as familiar as they had ever been. Through all of the seasons of life, that had never changed. The warmth of the summer day danced with the gentle breeze that could be heard before it could be felt. He had been on this trail many times on many different days. Days where the winter stripped what green the trail had to offer, and where the night brought on the full bitterness of winter. Days where the sun deceived one in the morning, hiding the storm that was to come. Days where the arrival of spring, lit up the forest in song and color. Throughout all of these days, the trail remained the same. It was not a complicated trail by any means; however, it was an unconventional one. Whereas many trails sought the path of least resistance, this trail sought to make the simple, difficult. Instead of climbing once to the ridgeline and plateauing as long as it could, this trail went up, only to return down. Over and over again, the trail followed this pattern, exhausting the ones who sought to conquer it. The trail cut through many different scenes of life. Travelers would find themselves in the old familiar pine forest, and then turn a corner to feel the thick heat of a swamp. Only to travel up a hill and be caught up in tropical scrub. New travelers would look unknowingly at a map and believe they know knew the trail, but to know the trail, one would need to be on it. The man knew this trail though, and he knew it well. As he crossed through the pines, admiring the small, dirt cliffs and the tall, lanky trees, he thought back to a different time, the first time he conquered the trail. He was just a boy, unaccustomed to the outdoors, and unaware of what pain a trail can bring. He went with friends, and because of this, the trail was nothing more than competition on who could prove themselves to be the strongest. This competitive drive brought nothing to pain for the losers and indifference to the strongest. As the boy climbed the hill, and the saw palms cut his legs, the allure of being the strongest was lost. The boy trudged on because of the competition, but there was no meaning in it. Because the boy did not believe that the trail had meaning, he could gain nothing from it. The bright white of the dogwood flowers and beauty in the song sung by the wind and the birds were nothing, but a background to pain for the boy. His inexperience in life stole the moment from him, but a memory was made. The years went by, and the memory of the trail slowly cut out the pain and left a faint impression of the song of that day. The humble beauty of that song would lead him back to the trail. As the man continued on the trail, he stopped at a creek to rest. The creek was surrounded by rock and moss, creating a dark palette for the water to flow through. As he watched that eternal creek flow, he thought back to the second time that he visited the trail. It was when he was in his youth, not quite a man, but not quite a boy. This time he was once more surrounded by friends, but they did not drive each other through the trail through competition. This time they went through the trail in fellowship. He was full of youth and love, and this allowed him to witness the beauty of the trail for the first time. There was no pain then. Every hill was taken on slowly so that he could witness the life that is offered to its travelers. Every song was listened to, and every turn brought continuous wonder. The thick scrub that the trail would present to its travelers was not a hindrance anymore. Instead, he was in awe of it and the strength that the forest contained. The night was not full of pain, it was lit up by fire, whiskey, and laughter. The morning did not bring dread, it brought excitement to begin once more. The man thought back to that time on the trail, and he thought of how romantic he once believed that life was. He continued on the trail, leaving the sound of the stream behind. He went up a familiar hill, ignoring the cuts of the saw palms, ignoring the trees, the birds, the world around him, because he knew what the top of the hill offered. As he trudged on, he thought back to the last time he was on the trail. That time, he was fully a man and this had changed the meaning of the trail. He carried more than his pack that time. That time he carried the loss of love and life with him. The birds' songs were perhaps more beautiful this time, but they sang a sadder song, one that must come to an end. The blossoming flowers sprouted from fallen trees. The fire at night was there to light the forest but also to warm the man. The whiskey was there to laugh in friendship, but also to forget. The joy of the trail was not lost, but this time the man knew that there cannot be joy without suffering. The man finally came to the top of the hill, and at the top, he fully returned to the moment. He felt the warmth of the sun come down in large beams from the narrow shade of the pines. He felt the breeze bring calmness to the stirring forest. The man heard the sparrows sing life, and the fallen tree gave the man rest. From the first time to the last time on the trail, this place brought nothing but peace. The sufferings of the outside world could not reach there. There was nothing else, but this moment and there was no place, but this place. He sat there for as long as he could, as time passed without his notice. Slowly, the sun began to lower, and the end of the trail was near. Once more he set on the trail. The smell of pine and the brown tint of the forest were as familiar as they had ever been.