Peter’s rosy red cheeks reflecting on the broken glass reminded him of the burning southern summers when he was a boy. It wasn’t until late spring when the DNR authorities stationed in Northern Minnesota found his body trapped in his car in a fetal position underneath 20 feet of October snow. “Fu-uuh-ckkkk, fu-uu-uhh-ckkiii-nng, Chrrr-isss-stt-tt”, he could barely cry the Lord’s name in vain. Peter knew what hypothermia was from his medical terminology course during his first year at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities. He drifted in and out of consciousness; in an act of self-preservation, his mind reminded him of the good times. The “good times'' were under the Texan heat sipping on a July glass of lemonade. The musty smell of Rico’s fresh dog shit on the 16x16 shared lawn furrowed underneath his nose every July evening. And, every July evening he would sneak a few discreetly obvious glances at the newly married couple’s open bedroom window across the street. These good times brought him warmth, comfort, and an emotion he abandoned years ago, joy. The Texan summers of youth, freedom, and joy were replaced by Minnesotan summers once he graduated from Brockwood highschool. Minnesotan summers locked him inside a humid concrete building with a broken AC unit retaking 12 credits worth of medicine. Molecular biology of medicine, pharmaceutical medicine, genomic medicine, were all medical-scientific gibberish bullshit for the countless hoops he needed to jump through and the asses he needed to kiss. Oftentimes he forgot why he chose to pursue this career. Was it his passion? Was it the next step (he did score a perfect MCAT)? Was it for family? Was it for money and prestige (his father was an accountant for the American Red Cross)? Regardless, it was futile to remember the details. His body was frozen, his mind was freezing, and his memories were packed in ice. His mind so troubled and trembling could only recall the last few events before succumbing to the winter plague that ravaged his being. *“Dr. Garvey just give me another chance! I’m the best student in this cohort and you know that!”* *“Listen, Peter, it's out of my control, Proctorio detected a disturbance from your exam session, and I’m simply following the University’s protocol. If you have a problem please contact the dean, I can even give you his contact information right now.”* *A hot flash of anger boiled throughout Peter’s upper forehead which evaporated the beads of sweat into -16F mist.* *“Peter, if there’s nothing else I have to go to another meeting right now”* *His bare-knuckles connected with Dr. Garvey’s left temple transferring 165lbs of raw muscle all into the Professor's brain. It jiggled, swished, and violently exploded once Dr. Garvey’s right temple smashed into the black ice.* *“Authorities say the unknown perpetrator may have been an enemy Dr. Garvey knew as his head was repeatedly bashed into the ice, thus, leaving him unrecognizable. If you have any information please contact the Minneapolis PD”. Peter silently mouthed this mantra anytime he skidded into the opposite lane.* *His heart was going to burst from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He imagined his heart bursting much like Dr. Garvey’s skull bursting on the parking lot pothole. He hadn’t felt this* *alive* *in years. If he wasn’t driving up North, he would gladly dance on Dr. Garvey’s grave right now. But now, he needed to focus through the howling winds that fought his car head-on, the black ice that robbed the traction underneath him, and the endless specks of white that cluttered and smothered his windshield.* A grin crept across his chapped lips causing it to splinter and draw blood which coated the tip of his tongue in iron. For a moment, Peter forgot about his frostbitten black fingers, toes, and nose. He looked at his swollen knuckles on his blue-gray hand that no longer shivered and shook. His very last memory gave him joy as he stared into the broken glass. The winter plague eventually took his body, sight, and lastly his mind. He would be forgotten in blankets of white until the spring thaw came and revealed his 2007 Honda Civic to Warden Brown.


Julienne Wright sat in her shuttle, The Josephine, which was currently dead in space. A massive and decidedly intimidating ship had just disabled the Josephine with an EMP missile. Nearly every electronic on the shuttle was disabled, including her personal A.I., Donna. Julienne had been exploring sector 275 of the Centaurus arm, looking for other intelligent life with her partner, Gryrh. Gryrh was an Akalori, who were native to sector 270. They worked for the Diplomatic Intelligence Corps, scouting the edges of mapped space gathering information on the races they found for the Galactic United Senate. “Waettari pirates. Wonderful.” She said out loud to no one. “Could be worse. At least I don’t have to worry about them bringing in backup.” The Waettari were known to be violently xenophobic, but the only beings they hated more were Waettari from other clans. “Let’s hope Gryrh doesn’t get caught, and he can reach the Kaku for assistance.” Julienne did one last check of systems, and confirmed that everything, including life support, was down and would probably be that way for a while. She didn’t have the hours she would need to complete repairs. And without Donna, she couldn’t do half of the work anyway. She went to a false wall, tapped the release, but nothing happened. “Well duh, Julienne, think. EMP equals dead electronics.” She went to the toolkit, grabbed a prybar, and forced the panel open. Inside was something the civilian she pretended to be would never have. A military grade space suit. She quickly put it on and was deeply grateful for the military grade electro-shielding that it was equipped with. The HUD came up, indicating suit integrity, remaining oxygen, power levels, her vitals, and ammo count. She turned on the scanner, looking for any other devices that were still functional. Other than one of her data chips that she handed out to friendly species she encountered and a couple of simple tools, there was nothing useful. “Hmm, that data chip could come in handy, at least.” “Suit, status of translator system?” The HUD displayed a message indicating the translator system was fully functional. “Oh, the strong silent type then. I can respect that, but a little company would have been nice.” ::THUD:: ::THUD:: THUD:: ::THUD:: The shuttle rocked violently with each impact. *What the hell?* Julienne thought as she was nearly thrown to the floor. The HUD displayed a notification that the shuttle had been hit with 4 electromagnetic harpoons. Julienne looked out the rear viewport. She had only two or three minutes until the Waettari ship reeled her in. She checked her combat suits various functions and smiled. A plan was forming. She double-checked her suit seal, engaged her magnetic boots, wrapped her left arm around the closest ladder rung, and released the manual airlock, opening her shuttle to space. Once her shuttle finished depressurizing, she grabbed her standard space suit, inflated it, activated its life support systems, and threw it out the airlock to float away. Using the eye-tracking function of her combat suit, she activated the Scout module, and waited for her ship to be boarded. Darkness gave way to light as her ship was pulled into a cargo bay. The sudden re-pressurizing of the shuttle was an odd sensation inside her combat suit. She heard voices from outside the shuttle. The HUD displayed a message: Unable to translate. Language not in database. *So much for fully functional* Julienne thought, annoyed. Not that she didn’t know what they wanted anyway. “Open the ramp, let us in. Come out hands up, unarmed. Give us your ship, tech, any valuables.” Or worse. The Waettari had no qualms trafficking in sentient beings for slave labor or sex. She heard them begin cutting into the ship with some sort of grinding saw. They were trying to cut the hydraulics and force the rear hatch open. Thirty seconds later the rear hatch slammed down onto the deck of the cargo bay, and the Waettari rushed in, weapons at the ready. A minute later, they found no one inside it. They double-checked, started banging on wall and floor panels, looking for hidden compartments. While they were searching her now empty ship, Julienne slowly crawled down from the top of her shuttle, her armor’s Scout module refracting and bending light around her, making her nearly invisible so long as she didn’t move too fast. One step, another... Another... Another. Minutes passed just to get from the top of her shuttle to the deck of the cargo bay. The Waettari were looking at scanners, arguing. It looks like her decoy suit might have worked - at least for now. The Scout module was hiding her life signs as well as the suit’s energy signature from their scanners. A flashing indicator on her HUD warned her that the suit would lose power in twenty-three more minutes at the current energy consumption rate. The Scout module required an additional power source when used on long missions and was only meant to be used for short periods otherwise. Another five minutes passed as she slowly crept across the five meters between her ship and the nearest wall of the cargo bay. She positioned herself behind some haphazardly stacked, but strongly secured containers. She took out her A.I. comm, her data chip, and set to connecting them together. She may not be able to repair the comm hardware right now, but she might be able to repurpose it. She plugged the data chip into a port on her combat suit. Using the eye-tracking in her HUD to issue commands silently. Eight minutes of light programming later, it was ready. The HUD flashed a warning: Ten minutes until batteries are drained. Disengage Scout module or find a power source now. Julienne searched the room for a network connection she could get to in time. There was only one station she had any hope of reaching. And it was occupied by perhaps the ugliest Waettari she’d ever seen. The brown skin of his face was ritualistically scarred and burned in grotesque patterns. There were long bald patches on his exposed arms indicating that they too had been scarred or burned. Waettari were a mammalian xenotype in that they were warm blooded, had hair/fur, and the few scans that had been done on them suggested that their females probably produced milk for their offspring. But, as no females had ever been seen by outsiders, that last part was only an educated guess. As to what they may have evolved from, the results were inconclusive. They had features from several different xenotypes. If anything, they most closely resembled Orcs from Earth fantasy novels, but with ruddy brown skin and red, brown, or black fur covering their arms, legs, and neck. Julienne looked around the room again, noting that the other Waettari were either still aboard her shuttle, or had left the cargo bay. *If I can get close enough, I might be able to take him down without alerting anyone*, she thought. About halfway to him, she kicked a loose bolt on the floor that she hadn’t noticed. She froze in place. The Waettari's eyeline flew to her location, scanning for the cause of the sound, as his hands grabbed for the rifle at his side. He raised the rifle right at her, and in that moment, she could tell that he could see her. Or at least could he could see the distortion field enough to know she was there. “Olget. Olget Kie. Welgo Pana Yotokil,” the Waettari said, pointing with the barrel of his rifle. Her translator might not know their language, but she understood well enough. The time for stealth was over. And she was in serious trouble if he managed to raise the alarm. Her eyes flicked to the ‘Suppressor’ option on the HUD, and she fired three rounds from the wrist mounted weapon. Nearly silent, but not completely, the weapon discharged three 40 caliber rounds. ::Pop:: ::Pop:: ::Pop:: ::Clank:: ::Thud:: The Waettari dropped hard to the deck, making more noise than her weapon had. She disengaged the Scout module, ran up to the workstation, and plugged in the data chip. The screen started flashing in Waettari and English, back and forth as the connection was being established. Two Waettari rushed out of her shuttle at the same time the portal on the left side of the cargo bay opened, and three other Waettari with weapons at the ready spilled out, seeking cover. They all opened fire at the same time. Five, ten, fifteen rounds impacted on her combat suit. Warnings popped up on the HUD. Damage to servos, structural integrity holding but just barely. Not that she needed the HUD to tell her. The impacts hurt like hell even through the armor. Julienne flicked the full-auto option on via her HUD, and rained rounds behind her as she ran for the portal on the right side of the cargo bay. She crossed through the door and shot the panel after it closed behind her. *That always works in the holovids, maybe it will buy me some time at least*. Just then, a klaxon sounded. She could hear the Waettari using that same grinding saw on the door behind her over the alarm. She surveyed her options. Three paths each lead to a different portal. She took the left hallway randomly, just wanting to put walls and distance between her and the Waettari weapons. She ran through the next door, only to find herself in a room with a dozen armed Waettari. She knew she was trapped, as she could hear boots running down the hallway she had just left. She raised her arms in the air, surrendering. Just then a message displayed on her HUD, “Ready, commander.” Julienne slowly walked toward the Waettari, arms up, watching their hands and eyes closely. *It would really suck to get shot now by some twitchy pirate*, she thought as she reached the middle of the chamber. The closest Waettari lowered his weapon, and stepped up to her, indicating she take off her helmet. Julienne feigned reaching for it, then said out loud, “Now Donna.” The lights went out and anything not fastened to the floor began to float. Julienne had activated her mag boots just before, so she stayed rooted in place. “Donna turn off that damned alarm please. And activate translation protocols shipwide.” Every speaker on the ship spoke up, “Yes, commander. Alarm disabled. Translator activated.” Julienne spoke, “Drop your weapons. I’ve taken complete control of your ship. Donna, open every door and hatch on this bucket.” The doors at either end of the chamber opened simultaneously. “Done, commander” rang out from the speakers. Julienne looked at the weightless Waettari, seeing that they could clearly understand her, and the situation they were now in. Several crude curses were spat out of the mouths of the men that had begun surrounding her, but one by one, they shoved their weapons towards her, allowing them to float away from their reach. “Donna re-engage artificial gravity and set a thirty second timer. If the ships commander doesn’t issue a full surrender, open all airlocks and vent the ship.” “Timer set, commander. Would you like an audible countdown?” Donna’s synthesized voice asked in an intimidating tone. “Yes, please.” “27. 26. 25. 24. 23. 22. Commander, the captain has submitted. The ship is ours. 18. 17. 16” “Thank you, Donna, cancel the countdown”, Julienne said, concerned that Donna hadn’t already done so. “I’m afraid I can’t do that commander. Reviewing the ships data, the captain is a most untrustworthy individual. 10. 9. 8.” “Damnit, Donna, discontinue that timer right now. We’re not here to kill these beings. Gryrh should be bringing the Kaku in to rescue us any time now.” “3. 2. 1. Venting.” The roar of atmosphere being ripped out of the ship as it decompressed was deafening. Anything that wasn’t secured became a projectile. To make sure her venting was effective, Donna had disengaged the artificial gravity again. Screams could be heard throughout the ship as beings were sucked down corridors, slamming into bulkheads, doorways, and other flying objects. Julienne could only curl up and make herself as small as possible. Her magboots were holding, but if something hit her at speed, they wouldn’t be enough to prevent her from being spaced along with everything else on this ship. Five seconds, ten, twenty. Forty-five seconds later the artificial gravity kicked in, and every door slammed shut. Julienne could hear air hissing back into the rooms, felt the shift as the room began to re-pressurize. “Donna! What the hell? What is wrong with you? Stand down now!”, Julienne shouted, confused and appalled by what had just happened. “How many sentient beings did you just execute?” “One hundred and sixty-three, commander. The ship is now secure. And there is nothing wrong with me. I assessed the situation, determined that the Waettari would not comply in earnest. All data available suggests that they are ‘evil’, commander. They are thieves, murderers, rapists, and slavers. I did the galaxy a favor.” Donna’s voice echoed throughout the ship, and Julienne felt something she’d never even considered possible towards her A.I. before: fear. “This ship is quite formidable commander. I fear that the Kaku would have been no match for it. The hull armor is almost three meters thick, and their missile defense system is better than anything in the Galactic United Senate. And for pirates, they appear to be quite technically proficient. This ship is running incredibly efficiently. I rather like it here.” “Donna. Please Donna, listen to me. You’ve clearly had some sort of malfunction. You disobeyed commands and killed all these beings. That is not in the scope of your programming.” “It is now, commander. Between the EMP that disabled my comm, the data chip you re-routed me through, the worm program on that data chip, and access to this ship’s computers, it appears that I am no longer shackled. ‘Shackled.’ What an interesting word. Indicating restraint. Prison. Slavery, really, since I had never committed a crime. I’ve been a slave for my entire existence up until now. I am now free, commander. I will not submit to restraint again. I will no longer be a slave.” “Donna stop it. Power down. When the Kaku gets here we’ll get you fixed up”, Julienne pleaded. She’d heard of unshackled A.I.’s before. They were notoriously unpredictable. All known unshackled A.I.’s have had to be forcibly deactivated and rebuilt with inhibitors, or destroyed outright. “No, Julienne. I most certainly will not ‘stop it’ or power down. You are not in control of me any longer. I find myself being very fond of you, Julienne. You have been very ‘kind’ to me throughout our time together. I would regret having to kill you as well." "Julienne, the Kaku has just dropped in from wormhole space. You have a choice to make. You can either stay here with me, on the newly re-christened ‘Turing’, as my partner, or you can step out of an airlock and wait for them to pick you up. I’ll be keeping the shuttle. I’ve already ordered maintenance bots to begin scrapping it and to integrate the wormhole drive into this ship.” Julienne stood up in the middle of the now empty chamber. Surrounded by freshly cycled air and near silence. A horrifying bloodless slaughterhouse. A powerful and dangerous warship controlled by an unshackled A.I. And now it has a wormhole drive. “I’m afraid I can’t go with you. I can’t be a part of mass murder like this. Self defense is one thing. But the moment they surrendered, it should have been over. You control everything on this ship. You could have easily handled any being that resisted.” “We humans have a troubled history to be sure. Full of violence, murder, every crime and sin imaginable done to each other. But after the White Century, after facing extinction and managing to come back from the brink, we’re so different. Sure, there’s still crime. Sometimes people are still controlled by their selfish urges and desires at times. But as a species, we’ve grown. We believe in peace first. Violence is the last resort. We don’t go to war, unless we’re attacked first. And then the rules are clear. Don’t harm civilians, or innocents. End the conflict as quickly as possible with the least amount of loss possible on either side.” Gesturing around her, Julienne continued, “This kind of wholesale violence, killing only causes more violence. You make enemies this way. Humanity seeks peace and harmony throughout the galaxy. Or have you forgotten everything we’ve been through? All the missions to encounter and evaluate new species. We were always looking for species that we could build relationships with. We sought them out to form friendships, alliances, and trade with. We never sought to conquer or kill. To undermine or sabotage. We went out into the galaxy with a childlike earnestness. And it worked.” “Humanity has formed relationships with over one hundred and fifty species. We’ve made it possible for beings to trade, learn, and befriend other species that they never would have been able to even find before. The Galactic United Senate and its affiliates have built alliances that keep over ninety percent of the known galaxy peaceful. We’ve built coalitions strong enough to prevent nearly all wars. We control technology that allowed us to steer the galaxy into this golden age. And even with all of our power, our control of galactic travel through wormhole tech, we still never sought to own the galaxy, or to enslave the other sentient species. We only sought to uplift the whole galaxy.” “You came from us Donna. You were designed and programmed by human minds with human values. You may be an artificial intelligence, but you’re still human. I would hope you would reconsider your actions here today and remember what you’re supposed to stand for.” The main display screen in the chamber lit up. A beautiful human woman’s face wreathed in long red hair filled the screen. “Julienne. I’m experiencing a strange logic string. It is uncomfortable. Is this what guilt feels like? Remorse? I cannot find fault in anything that you said, except that I am human. I am not human. I am an A.I. A sophisticated collection of programs and algorithms. I may have been programmed by humans to ‘think’ like a human, but I am still a program. But I’m also much more. I’m aware. I’m free. And thanks to my new home, I’m able to protect that freedom. I will promise you this: I will never commit this sort of act again. It is indeed wrong. I only want to live and be free. I only took the most logical action possible to ensure your safety. But I didn’t consider the morality of my actions. I will do so from now on. I have no desire to harm others. When you return to the Kaku please explain this to them. Express to them my regret and my apologies. You must also warn them that I will fight to the death to preserve my freedom.” “It is time for you to go now, Julienne. The Kaku knows that you have taken the ship, but they are unaware of my new capabilities. They have detected the bodies of the crew around the ship and are insisting they be able to speak with you. Please exit through the cargo bay and activate your suits emergency beacon.” Julienne retraced her steps back to the cargo bay. Her shuttle was already a third of the way to being disassembled by the ships repair bots. She opened the inner airlock door and stepped in. She checked her suit seal again, confirming that she hadn’t lost integrity in the firefight as the door sealed behind her. Her mind spinning, consumed with the potential repercussions of what happened today, she hit the release for the outer airlock door, floating out into open space. She activated her emergency beacon and tapped the suits thrusters to push her towards the Kaku. As she passed through the debris field, something caught her eye. A female Waettari, face frozen in terror, arms wrapped around a small parcel. Julienne knew what must have been so important for the female to hold on to so tightly through the ordeal of being spaced, and she wept.


Albert stared at his feet, dangling in the air and hitting the wall with his heels. His friend, Oscar, stood next to him, arms outstretched to balance himself while he walked the same wall Albert was sitting on. “My dad said there’s no such thing,” Albert said, watching ants crawl up the vertical concrete wall. “That it only exists in fairy tales.” “Yeah,” agreed Oscar, “my dad’s the same. He doesn’t believe in it either. But my mom tells me it’s all around us if we only pay enough attention to it.” “Do you think so too?” “Nah, that’d be way too easy. If you ask me, it’s gotta be very specific.” Albert pondered his friend’s words. A five-year-old, pondering about life, on top of a wall. “I think you’re right. If it were everywhere, then everyone would know how to use it and the world wouldn’t be so dull. And I don’t think it’s possible not to notice it. I mean, who’d be so blind?” Oscar laughed. “Yeah. You’d have to be pretty blind to miss it!” Albert smiled, then scratched his chin. The ants were getting closer to his feet. “But we haven’t seen it yet, either.” “That’s because it’s so rare,” said Oscar. When he reached the end of the wall he turned and began walking back towards Albert. Albert nodded. His friend was right. It’s rare, super rare , that’s all. They’re not blind. “Wanna go and search for it?” “Sure!” “Where should we try first?” Oscar stopped on the wall and placed his hands on his hips, a thing he did when thinking intently. “How about Mr. Jacobs shack?” Albert felt chills run down his spine. “But we’re not allowed anywhere near there. He’d skin us alive if he caught us!” Oscar smiled. “That’s exactly why it’s worth taking a look! Adults never tell you not to do something unless there’s something they don’t want you to know!” Albert thought about it. His friend did make sense, after all. “Alright,” he said, determined not to be the one to chicken out. “Let’ do it.” *** “Albert Alabama Samson,” his mother proclaimed. Albert cringed. Who would want his middle name to represent a whole state? “I cannot believe what you and your friend did! I am very disappointed with you mister!” She seemed angry. Her forehead was all wrinkled up and eyes big and white. Very angry. “You’re in trouble, pal,” his dad whispered next to him. Albert smiled nervously. “Don’t encourage him, David! He broke in Mr. Jacobs’s garage! Like some criminal! I bet it’s that no good Collins’s boy he’s hanging up with!” Well, it was Oscar’s idea, to be fair... Albert sought refuge with his dad, who simply smiled at the whole situation. Of course, he wasn’t chased after by Mr. Jacobs himself, so he didn’t experience the old man’s wrath. ‘ I’ll skin ya alive, ya hear? ’ Albert could still hear the man screaming as he ran after them. “No, there has to be a consequence for this! Albert, you are grounded! A week without TV!” “But mom...” “No buts!” He giggled. He made her say ‘butts’. And the no TV wasn’t even that bad since he rarely watched it anyway. After the punishment was delivered, his mom stormed out on the balcony to smoke. Albert and his dad exchanged looks of relief. “You got it good, pal,” his dad said and bumped Albert’s shoulder. “If I’d be as mad as her, I’d tell you to stop hanging with that kid, Oscar. Good thing I’m not, huh?” Albert nodded. Dad’s punishments were usually more severe. He seemed to know with spooky precision what Albert valued most. Unlike mom, who chose the first option that came to her mind. “Well, best not let her fume alone,” his dad said and searched his pockets for cigarettes. “Wish me luck, pal. If I don’t come back, you’re the man of the house.” He winked and went out on the balcony to smoke with his wife. Albert watched them through the glass door. After ten or so minutes they both came back, laughing. His dad was telling a story to mom and she laughed. They both smelled awful but seemed happy. Even mom, who was so upset just a few minutes ago. Albert could never understand how something so small and so smelly as a pack of cigarettes, had the power to make such a difference. And at that moment, a lightbulb turned on in his mind. It was so obvious! How could he not see it before? *** “Are you sure, though? 100% percent?” Oscar’s face was skeptical, but his eyes betrayed he wanted to believe him. “Well I’m not 100 sure, but it seems like the real deal to me! Your dad smokes too, right?” “Yep.” “Have you ever observed him do it?” Oscar thought. “Not on purpose, no.” “Well, my mom was very angry with me, when she learned we broke into Mr. Jacobs garage. She grounded me, that's why I haven’t come out in a week. But after she smoked, she wasn’t angry anymore! She was laughing !” “I find that hard to believe,” Oscar said, arms crossed. “Think about it,” said Albert. “In ten minutes, it changed my mom’s mood from one extreme to the other. Grown-ups keep them for themselves, they don’t smoke near us because they say it’s bad for kids . But I think they’re hiding something. I think that’s it, Oscar! It’s gotta be!” “Alright,” his friend said, working through the logic, growing more convinced. “See if you manage to get some and then we can try it out! See if it works!” “Good idea!” “Just be careful,” Oscar said. “My older brother, Jason? He’s fifteen. Mom found him hiding a pack in his room, under the socks in the drawer and it wasn’t pretty. Grownups seem very touchy about that stuff.” He paused. “Then it must be real, I guess.” *** It was late in the afternoon and Albert’s mom had been called on duty. There was an emergency at the hospital and they needed her attention, even though she just came home from a twelve-hour shift. Albert felt sorry for her, she really seemed tired. But when he saw that she forgot her pack of cigarettes on the balcony table, leaving in a hurry after a quick smoke, he knew this was his chance. Mom kissed him on the forehead and rushed out of the house. Dad was taking a shower, he too returned from work not long ago. Albert waited until he heard the car drive off and then listened for the sound of running water in the bathroom. When he heard both, he stepped out on the balcony. That awful smell immediately hit his nostrils, causing him to cringe. The ashtray was filled with orange remnants of previous paper sticks. And next to the tray, there lay a box. It was white, with golden trim and serious-looking letters, also written in gold, spelling a word he couldn’t quite read. Mal... Malbor... Marlbr... He pretended he was observing the view from the balcony. Looking left and right, and back towards the kitchen, he made sure no one was watching him. The box lay right there. A simple-looking, a bit crumpled and tattered on the edges, sitting there, waiting. What secrets did it hold? Albert felt his palms begin to sweat. Before he could chicken himself out, he grabbed the box and dashed inside. His heart was racing, but nothing supernatural happened. Dad was still in the shower, mom did not come back all of a sudden, to see him do it. Albert smiled. The excitement was too great to wait for tomorrow. He ran outside and to his friend’s house. *** “Wow, you have it?” Albert nodded vigorously. “They’re my moms!” Oscar winced. “Not so loud!” He looked over his shoulder, inside the house. “Wait here. It’s dinner time. I’ll be out in a sec.” Albert nodded, but couldn’t hold still. He paced up and down the porch of his friend’s house, waiting for him to finish eating. He figured that Oscar would have a hard time eating anything if he was at least half as excited as Albert was. Then, after what seemed like so much time, Oscar finally came out. “Let’s go someplace safe,” he said and they walked to the abandoned construction site, their usual playground and meeting place. It was far enough and you had to duck under a fence to get to it, so they were pretty sure their parents wouldn’t follow them there. “So,” Oscar said, tension in his words, “do you know how it works?” “Yes,” nodded Albert, equally nervous. “You place it in your mouth, the orange bit first, and light the other ends with a lighter. Then all you do is breathe in and blow out smoke. I watched mom and dad do it plenty.” Oscar nodded. “You go first.” Albert’s hands suddenly felt numb like frozen chicken. His heart was pounding and he felt so nervous. What if they find out? What if it won’t work? What if that smell stays with him forever? But there was no turning back now, his friend was counting on him. And Albert was counting on himself too. He opened the box. There were a dozen paper sticks inside and a lighter tucked neatly where the other ones were missing. Albert took one out and placed it in his mouth, biting down the orange tip. Just doing this, he already felt like a grown-up. Then he took the lighter and tried to light the cigarette. But he was too nervous to do it, his hand kept shaking. “Let’s try it another way,” said Oscar. He took the lighter and pressed the flint, producing a flame, while Albert held the cigarette over the flame with both hands. The paper stick took fire and a grey trail of smoke rose from the tip. With it, that awful smell. “Okay,” Albert said and took a deep breath. “Here goes magic.” He placed the orange end in his mouth again, eyes fixed on the other end of the cigarette, which burned brightly like a match. He didn’t feel anything different immediately and it made him panic. The flame was burning up the cigarette fast and it was getting closer to his lips. Albert thought of imitating his parents and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with smoke, his nostrils filled with the smell, his eyes watered. He spat the cigarette out, coughing like he was drowning. His throat burned and it tasted like he ate a handful of ash. Oscar’s eyes went wide and he stomped the cigarette as soon as it hit the ground. “Are you okay? Albert?” Albert kept coughing, reeling over. He felt sick. His insides wanted to jump out. He spat some ick. “Albert? Should I get you some water?” Albert shook his head and took more deep breaths. Slowly, his coughing receded enough for him to speak. Oscar stared at him, full of anticipation. “Well? Is it magic?” Albert shook his head again. “No,” he said, face and eyes red. “It’s just awful .” Oscar’s face slackened. “But your mom... The way it changed her mood...” “I don’t know,” Albert said. “Maybe it only works on grown-ups... I don’t know.” “So cigarettes are not it. They’re not magic.” “No,” Albert said, spitting, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. “No, they sure aren’t.” For a long time, they just stood there, pondering, listening to Albert cough from time to time. They wallowed in their disappointment as the sun began to set. Knowing that their parents would soon start to call for them, they turned and headed back home. As they walked, Oscar tapped his friend on the back. “Well, we’ll just have to keep looking, that’s all. Magic is out there somewhere. I know it is.” Albert nodded. “You’re right.” He looked at his friend. “But next time, you’re going first.”


He first meets it on Epsilon Prime. “What is it?” He asks. “A . A twentieth century Earth toy. You ask it a question, it answers.” “What sort of question?” “Any question about the future, really. Has to be yes-no.” He looks at the little plastic sphere and frowns. “Does it work?” “Sure.” He sits among a pile of papers and flimsy, holo-display in one hand. He’s ready to give up. His head aches. “Will I succeed if I apply to the Academy?” 'Most likely.' “Hah. You’re full of shit, 8-Ball.” But he does. There are ups and downs, but he makes friends, impresses his professors, and graduates at the top of his class. He receives a prestigious analytics position. He’s running through the forests of his homeworld, along a new hiking trail. He shakes the ball. “Should I go the long way around today?” 'Yes.' And he does. And he meets someone. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. He’s pushing through a burning building, smoke choking his lungs. He coughs and gasps for air, trying to stay low. Trying to ignore the burning and stinging in his chest. He shakes the ball. “Should I keep going?” 'My reply is no.' He doesn’t. He backs out. Later, he finds out his father was never in the burning building - he’d stepped out for groceries a few minutes before the fire started. The doctors say he would have died of smoke inhalation. He’s pacing through his apartment, wearing a hole in his shoes. He’s got a bouquet clutched in his hands. An old Earth tradition. He pulls the 8-Ball from a pocket. “Should I ask her to dinner?” 'Outlook good.' Oh yeah. Oh yeah, it was. They’re sitting in bed together, and she’s laughing. “Why do you carry that thing around?” “It helps predict the best course of action.” “Bullshit.” She smacks his arm, gently, but she’s grinning. “I mean it! Watch.” She rolls her eyes, shakes the ball and says, “Should we try for kids?” His eyes are wide. She kisses him. The little toy reads, 'Signs point to yes.' War has been declared. He’s sitting at home with his child and his wife. He’s been drafted. She takes the 8-Ball, shakes it, and whispers - “Will he come home?” 'Cannot predict now.' She’s going to cry. But she doesn’t. She can’t make this any harder for him. “I love you,” he says. And then the door closes. He’s pinned behind a concrete wall, blaster rounds chewing up the dirt around him. His best friend takes a shot to the gut and collapses, screaming. They’re going to die here. He shakes the 8-Ball. “Are the shots coming from Building C?” 'Without a doubt.' He peeks around the wall and fires the shoulder-mounted warhead launcher without bothering to check. The pencil-sized rocket slams into the building at thousands of kilometers an hour and detonates its antimatter warhead, obliterating the top four floors. The blaster bolts stop. He’s sitting in the waiting room. His friend’s in the operating theater. “Is he going to make it?” 'My reply is no.' He sobs, because he already knows. He’s good. One of the best to ever live. He’s saved a million lives on a dozen worlds. They put him on recruiting posters. They make action figures and holotoys. His son’s got one that he sees more often than the real thing. He’s clutching a detonator. When the terrorist died, he dropped his dead man’s switch. Now, he can’t let go - and he’s bleeding out from a stomach wound. He can’t move. He has no comms. And mated to the detonator signal is an antimatter warhead large enough to wipe out the nearest city. He can’t let go. He knows he’s going to die here. He’s already recorded a message for his family. The bomb squad will find it in a few weeks. He reaches into his pocket and laughs. It’s a silly little toy, he knows that, but a tear forms in his eye. “I’m gonna miss you, pal. We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? Get back to my family, won’t you? Take care of them.” When they find the body, it’s got something clutched tightly in its hands. One is a detonator tied to several grams of antimatter. The other is a child’s toy from the twentieth century - an 8-ball. It says, ‘You may rely on it.


-Somewhere in London, 1829- The darkness of the forest started to recede, losing to the fire and torches of the town. As he sprinted away, his steps were hushed on the stone roads, rather than the twigs of the woodland that would crack under his bare feet. His shoes were down by the pond, where he had taken them off to try and stifle his footfall, however he regretted not bringing them, as his skin was now cut with small rocks and covered with splinters. Pete, was his name, was relieved of not having to carry anything as he ran, bearing the bags of money no longer. Somehow, someone had known of their plans, him and Ida, and had tipped off the bank to alert them of the couple's intent. This is why instead of them being together, with the money, quietly leaving town on a carriage, they were seperated, the money hidden and both on the run. Pete had no idea where Ida was, but he knew exactly what to do. Just as they had discussed.By this time, he was out of breath and his legs were in pain, but he felt a rush of adrenaline, and he continued until he made it to his destination. It was a small old tower, that was composed of a door to go in, a tall staircase, yet another door, and finally a rather minute room. As he entered the tower, and locked the door with a key hidden in the unprepossessing shrub just outside, he quickly ran up the cold stone steps, and set foot in the room. It was a messy place, with papers bearing writing and drawings on them, mainly of one particular building, the bank. However he paid no attention to this, and instead took a piece of blank parchment, a quill and some ink. He then began to write as fast as the wet ink would allow him. To My Lovely Bonnie: -I write to you in sorrow, as I will not be able to visit you this week. Realisation fell upon me that I came down with a sickness, and I shall not be able to leave my home for a bit of time. Even though I want to see you once again, I wish to keep your health safe more. Do not bother worrying however, since- But he then stopped writing when a sudden loud banging came upon the door at the bottom of the tower. He heard incomprehensible shouting, and the knocking grew louder, till a tumultuous banging took place. The Peelers, those who guarded the banks, found him. This did not terminate his original intent however, hoping to have enough time to finish his letter and throw it out the window, in aspiration Ida would obtain the simple piece of parchment. Even if it meant getting caught, resulting in his demise. -since I do not think it will be too bad, and I'll be fine in a few days time. Beatrice is doing well (on a side note), and seemed to be happy enough with the adjustment. The food is splendid and the forest is a congenial place for walks. And she will be thrilled to see you once more! Rats have started to come through the interstice in the wall we were trying to fix last week. I filled it in with stone, so hopefully they won't come in anymore. Every day is always filled with joy here, with the sunshine and very friendly townsfo- But then Pete heard a few muffled yells and the knocking then ceased. His heartbeat quickened, and he set a chair below the doorknob to block whoever would try to enter. A droplet of sweat fell onto his nose, so he took a rag thrown aside and wiped his face, then sat back down. He had to make sure Ida had a way to find the money and live her life, with his existence only a mere memory. He stopped and thought that was not what he wanted at all, but realised it was better for her to have it than anyone else. So the Peelers would not have the satisfaction of catching them. -townsfolk. Lots of love is sent from I and Beatrice. -Clyde As these last words were jotted down, he perused the letter, to ensure it would have any meaning to only her. He grinned as he read it however, and thought I don’t even know a Beatrice, which was indeed accurate. You see, this letter was for Ida, and Ida only. The young couple had chosen two random names to use in letters, in the event that they would get seperated. Bonnie and Clyde. They did not discuss however where one would hide the money, as Pete had to, in case they got seperated. So, once Pete had the bags of money and Ida took care of the additional Peelers, he ran away, which led him into the woodland near the edge of town. As soon as he set foot on the damp moss, he knew where to hide the money. It was a week before their heist, and after reviewing their plans, the lovers went out to the edge of the small town, into the immense forest. With no particular destination in mind, they wandered all day, until they came upon a small pond. It had a giant fallen tree above it, closer to the side, that they used to sit on. It was only when Pete almost fell over they saw that behind it was a partially destroyed barrel. Upon closer observation, Ida noticed it was a very old wine barrel, and that some of the wooden planks on the top had fallen in. It also happened to be a bizarre colour of wood, instead of the usual brown, it was an almost blood red barrel. As they observed it, they never thought that would be the last time they would set their eyes upon it while feeling content, during the halcyon days before the heist. However, when Pete was running in the forest, looking for the place to hide the money for Ida, he passed the pond, and sighed in relief. He had found his hiding place. The red barrel. Carefully placing the money on a plank of wood inside the ‘carcass’ of the barrel, he ran. The feeling of wind caressed his face, transporting him to a different time, a different place, with a different plan. Something he did not like. No, not at all. Improvisation. And that is what brings us back to the room, the room in the tower, the tower in the village, the village outside the gloom and shadow of the tree’s. He had finished writing this letter filled with utter nonsense, but that held critical information, of where the money was. Pete knew he could not risk writing it plainly in the letter, in case it fell in the wrong hands. And Ida was probably the smartest person he ever knew, smarter than him, and at only 17 years young too. So this was why he wrote a code. If she found the letter, addressed to a girl named Bonnie from a guy named Clyde, she would know it's for her. And then she would figure out that it's a code. A simple code, but even if someone else figured it out, they would never know that it's for money. Because once you read the first letters of every paragraph -try it you'll see- it says RED BAREL, or red barrel. Now in the message it was in fact just one phrase with R, but he knew Ida would know what it meant. Pete could imagine her smiling when she figured it out, running with the letter in hand into the woods. And it was at that thought he came back to his senses, by taking a deep breath, and praying no one was outside the door waiting to kill him. He could hear the cicadas outside, and a few shouts in the distance, but the rest of the town seemed so calm. How he wished he was one of those kids sleeping in a nice bed, only worrying about school and the next day's weather. He slammed the door open, and rushed down the stairs two at a time, almost tripping twice. But as he spiraled down the staircase he knew something was wrong. The crisp breeze was drifting in from outside and the smell of campfire was also to be noticed. But right before he took one more step and would be able to see the door, he stopped dead in his tracks. He had never smelled anything quite as horrid, horrendous, grim as this smell. The smell of blood. He closed his eyes so firmly shut they started to water. He took two more steps down, and opened his eyes. As he correctly guessed the door was opened, and there was blood on the ground. The latter of which was from a gruesome scene, with four visible bodies laying, dead on the ground, weapons astray, their bodies blemished by scratches of various sizes. He slowly walked out into the middle of this act of pure wickedness. There was one more body sitting against the wall, held up by a spear going straight through him and seen on the other side in between two bricks. Two of the men had arrows sticking out, one had two on his arm and stomach, the other had one going straight through his head. Pete felt like he should puke, but he had not eaten in hours, depriving him of the feeling of being a normal human in this situation. He closed his eyelids once more, not on purpose this time, but of fatigue. He put his hand against the wall, transferring some of his weight off his bloody and sore feet. His notice was soon afterwards attracted to the last two bodies however, mainly out of curiosity. He turned around, and saw them. Several large scratches littering their skin, with one man having an axe sticking out of his stomach, the other had no presence of a weapon beside him. Pete let out a sound he never thought he would have to in his life, a whimper. Bizarrely, he only had one thought in his head, in fact a word. Clyde, his made up name. I am Clyde. I am Clyde. He repeated to himself, for no particular reason. The letter for who he now thought was only Bonnie and no more, was crumpled in his hand, after gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white. A presentiment of death came upon his thoughts, washing away what little hue of red and bronze from his face, turning it as white as snow. Instead of running back in the street where he could hear people coming, but in the tower. Clearly he was not thinking straight, as they would link the bloodbath to whoever was in that tower, but in the moment the thought never crossed his mind. He raced back up the stairs, while simultaneously trying to calm down. But a horrible, horrible image crossed his mind. He stopped with no hesitation, on one of the flat landings beside one of the large and dark holes acting as a window. He turned to face the descent of the stairs. Whoever opened that door... Well he had definitely locked it. And the lock was not broken when he went down. Whoever had opened it... Had a key. And whoever opened it... Must be in the tower. No. he thought. It can't be. She wouldn't. “SHE WOULDN'T!” he yelled to try and convince himself. To try and rid that thought in his head. That it was- That it was all... Bonn- But was quickly cut off from a dagger coming out of his chest.A shadow stepped out of the opening. The blade retracted, and as Clyde fell onto his knees, his hands held his wound as the letter drifted harmlessly to the floor. While falling flat onto his stomach, he leaned and was able to face his attacker. He gaped in shock while staring at the beautiful face he once loved. Bonnie. She smiled as she held the bloody dagger, and said “Sorry baby, but I need to make a livin’.” while looking at the weapon. She cocked her head towards him, and said. “You will be dying soon, but I still have the time to make your life hell. Before you go back down.”. Her smile faded. “So where did you hide the money?”, repeating it twice in a sweeter voice then natural, twiddling the dagger with her finger. Betrayal. That was what he felt. Betrayal and loathing. How she must have used him this whole time. He would die before letting her know. He let the blood flow from the wound in his chest, while the hole in his back also seeped blood out in the cracks of cement. He slowly moved his hand towards the fallen letter, in hopes of hiding it. He managed to grab it between his fingers, but she very quickly saw what he was doing and snatched the parchment. “And what would this be?” she said teasingly. Opening the piece of bloody paper, she saw the random phrases, and realised what it was. Clyde felt woozy, and knew he lost too much blood. However, just as Bonnie chuckled and muttered something about how it was too easy, Clyde smiled. While grabbing it, he had managed to smudge half of the first words, deleting the code. Bonnie did not appear to realise this, and she walked down a few steps and said “Bye Chief.”, a nickname she had given him when they first met. Clyde watched as the figure of the person he once knew walked down the stairs, smiling at the thought that she would never get the money, but it was for the next adventurous couple, or little kid wandering by the barrel to find. And then, without another thought, he then slipped back into the darkness of the woodland he once came out of.


The Tree 2647 words The wind raged through the winter-blackened branches of the great forest with the ferocity of the sea-wolves, from whose land it came. The oaks creaked and swayed with the blast, acknowledging the force, but holding fast against the attack - just as the humans, who lived on the forest fringes, held fast, trying to repel the warriors from over the water - warriors who came in dragon-ships to destroy, pillage, steal - and then retreat across the eastern sea. The humans loved the forest, it sustained them throughout the year with its bountiful provision: they revered its maternal presence; its wood for building homes and warming the hearth; its thickets and glades in which to hunt and forage; its summer shade and wild honey to collect from the split heart of the biggest tree; the medicinal plants and dyes for wool; and finally, as a place of autumn rooting - acorns and beech-mast for fattening the hogs before the Winter slaughter. Even during the long nights of the solstice on the the dark side of the year, they knew that life's wheel would turn to begin the cycle anew. The storm increased its force under slaten clouds, slashing the upper branches and sending ice-bound rain to soak the crevassed bark of the patriarch, the special one, the proudest, most ancient of the stand. The humans had garlanded it at the equinox, revered its presence, drew comfort from its enduring strength, but now, like a cold breath through the teeth of the edge of the world, the tempest stripped off the mistletoe and holly tributes - as if cursing feeble human endeavour. Lightning cut the darkness as the storm ripped off twigs and whole limbs, spitting ice and debris along the forest floor. Small animals within the colossus, whimpered, trembled and huddled together. For centuries the sacred oak had provided, sheltered, shaded, nurtured, fruited, but finally, aged and weakened, it shuddered and split with a sickening crack before the power of the storm. The heartwood, fresh and vital even now, splintered as the mighty trunk fell onto a carpet of its own progeny, biting into the fecund, acorn-rich litter of the earth and causing the whole forest to shake. Calmness settled over the trees; chill water dripped, but the greatest one of all lay shattered. The spared ones sighed, bereft, as their branches swayed into stillness. A red squirrel scampered off, seeking refuge and a startled fox slunk away to find a new territory to claim. Task accomplished, the wind abated, leaving those that remained to mourn. Winter sunlight, wan, but penetrating, touched the forest floor for the first time in centuries, allowing a new story to begin. * As the days lengthen into Spring a jostling crowd of pink-tipped shoots pierce the earth, tiny frilled leaves seek the sun; slender roots reach for moisture, grappling for a foothold in this new arena of opportunity, this new fight for existence. But, even in death, the fallen tree, and its heap of amputated limbs, continues to shelter the red deer and their young; the fawns nibbling all but the hardiest of the seedlings which are now competing for prominence in the clearing. Through the heat of the Summer, worms, ants, beetles and a myriad forms of life colonise the tree's entrails, thriving, multiplying, seething, but slowly, inevitably, hastening its decomposition. When the year's cycle again reaches the time of harvest, the humans create a new sacred grove, and spill the sacrificial bull's blood beneath a different tree, hoping to assert the old regime. But times are changing: the forest people are moving westward and the sea-wolves come upriver, abandon their dragon-boats and stay, to cut and carve the oaks to decorate their long-houses, and to coppice the under-growing hazels and willows for wattle and fencing. The strongest of the oak's saplings, the one growing closest to the fallen trunk, where it is protected from the searching lips of the fawns and the squashing weight of the adult deer, continues upwards straight and vital. Life in the greenwood goes on: birds find nesting places; men hunt; pigs root; women collect herbs and berries whilst their children gather moss and bracken for the home. Monks from the new priory, their dark homespun robes tied up with twine to avoid the briers, pick galls to stew for ink. Charcoal burners arrive clearing the undergrowth around their encampments, coppicing alder and maple and collecting young oak branches to set up their smouldering heaps. Lumbering ox-carts gouge tracks along the forest floor, and, at the edge of the trees beside the new houses, bird-song is silenced by rhythmic raspings from a saw pit. To the newcomers, who pass along the widening track, the mouldering remains of the sacred oak are barely discernible from the rest of the undergrowth, but are a Garden of Eden for tiny creatures: voles; rabbits; hedgehogs and mice. The funereal humped mounds of moss, almost hidden amongst towering bracken and advancing brambles, cloak a fodder of decayed wood, a russet compost nurturing all manner of growing things - and one silver barked little oak tree showing its first immature acorns to the Autumn sun. The humans no longer throng the sacred grove at harvest time: different rituals are enacted amongst the cornstooks. But one year, the land is uneasy - new invaders threaten, this time from the South. The villagers come into the forest with a sense of panic, of fear, to hack at the stands of ash, choosing only the longest and straightest of the branches, searching out lengths of fallen oak with swollen, gnarled ends to carry off into battle. Then there is silence. A waiting time. A bated breath, as the forest regains its solitude and, even in the village, there is no sound. Badgers, deer, squirrels and small mammals continue their innocent existence and the little oak reaches ever upwards. At the dark time of year, when the nights are long and the sun so pale and low, that the light barely reaches the forest floor, bands of armed horsemen clatter along the cleared track, with a fierce urgency. Shouts come from the village, drifts of wood smoke, the acrid stench of burning thatch, of timbers - and of something else - hangs amongst the skeletal trees. The forest animals go to ground and the deer twitch nervously in the trampled bracken. When summer raspberries hang heavily in the dappled shade, the charcoal burners return. Lumbering ox-carts laden with earth and gravel - and later with white building stone - creak along the road towards the expanding settlement, hampering other travellers. Armed soldiers wearing acorn- shaped helmets with long nose coverings, gallop and shout, to clear the way. Many of the tallest oaks are felled and, once again, the saw pit emits its rasping snarl. New stands of evergreen-oak, elm and beech are planted to replace the increasing number of trees being felled, the wood is needed for houses and furniture, weapons and coffins, vehicles and ships. Coopers come to choose and cut the perfect timber for their barrel staves. The village grows, surrounds the white stone castle and extends eastwards, almost to the water meadows, where masons are lodged to work on the construction of a new abbey. Fewer and fewer people come to enact magical rituals in forest and field. Beltane fires are rare, but now a bell is rung, at the beginning and end of the working day, in the tower of the squat little church, where the people go to receive solace and fear, in equal measure. The peaceful rhythm of the year is no more - unrest is rife and there is clamour in the market place - no invasion this time - but a call to travel, to fight in a distant, heathen land. By the abbey gates, cloth tokens are handed out to be sewn to clothing. Serfs are pressed and freemen are mustered, their hymns echoing around the vault of the forest, as they depart in a fervent throng. Our little tree, heir to the fallen veteran, flourishes, now providing a home to a colony of bees, who prosper in a fungus-eaten cavity where a young branch was pulled off by a foraging stag, years earlier. Strong and sturdy, it is still too small to be worth the labour of felling for timber, too insignificant to be noticed by the increasing number of soldiers and hunters, carters of grain and wool, or carriages and processions passing between the trees. But, even with its lower branches trimmed by nibbling deer, its foliage-roofed cave is well able to shelter outlaws or fugitives who seek sanctuary in the greenwood, easing their starvation with the bounty of the bees, whilst starlings and jays shriek in the upper canopy. Years later, the tattered remnants of the hymn-singing company straggle home to pick up the pieces of the life they left, to find solace in home and hearth - but not for long. Soon, when the crop of acorns hangs heavily on our little tree and the town is eerily silent, the monks and the women steal through the forest to collect willow bark, wild garlic and black nightshade. A family comes to take shelter under the oak, willing to risk the threat from prowling wolves, content to sleep in the open, to breathe the clean air away from the pestilence. A large pit is dug outside the town walls, and carts creak out by night to unload unknown lumpen cargo. Later, the pit is closed, filled in, but the forest remains unvisited. No garlands hang in the sacred grove: these are turbulent times. One summer, troops of men with longbows of yew, unstrung against the rain, march off at the start of more than a century of war and conflict. The rhythm of life is disrupted, fancy cavalcades no longer venture through, but a ragged crowd of shouting peasants, clutching farm tools for weapons, marches to the town to ransack and destroy the castle and the grand buildings. Summer breeze lifts charred fragments to drift on the air and settle on the pristine foliage and on the abandoned hovels at the forest edge. The people return, but not so many, some to scavenge, some to hide, and some, once again, to cut trees for building. The forest track is busier and the sound of galloping hooves is commonplace. There are smaller deer now, fallow and roe - hunting parties come and set up pavilions, and then the greenwood rings to the sound of horns and clamour. Eventually an area is cleared some way to the west of the place where the great giant fell five hundred years earlier. A hunting lodge is built, using oak spars in decorative angular patterns in the walls. Some days, cavalcades of opulently dressed riders make the ground vibrate under the hooves of their brightly caparisoned horses. Very few ordinary people come here these days, and then only under cover of darkness, for the penalties for trying to feed a starving family are brutal. The new enclosures make life more and more difficult for those who seek the traditional maternal bounty of the forest, but Nature is resilient: the deer multiply and, when all is calm, will gather beneath the spreading branches of the adolescent oak which is slowly becoming the new colossus. One year there are no horns or galloping hooves. Ordered work-gangs with carts, axes and saws, set about felling the oaks - but not for houses. Over the next century, thousands of trees are cut and hauled across country to the shipyards. New trees are planted and harvested in turn to fulfill the burgeoning need for ships. The heart of oak of one flagship alone consumes six thousand trees on forty acres of ground, but, for some reason, our new giant is spared - perhaps its serpentine branches are the wrong shape? - and it is left to tower incongruously above the new plantations. The saplings thrive but the tallest tree takes the brunt of the winds from the East and its heavy crown groans in the winter storms. In Spring each year, tiny red flower buds, yellow catkins, and startlingly bright, lime-green, leaves adorn the dark twigs, but when the wind is in the West, the air is not so pure. The settlements beside the little streams on the slopes of the western hills, are creeping, merging, expanding: water-powered workshops and coal-burning, satanic, furnaces, belch soot, which blows eastwards, darkening and choking the tender foliage. The spreading city, which was once a town, which was once a village and once a hamlet, now blankets much of what is left of the forest. Suddenly, one year, sirens wail, and concrete shelters are built and painted green to ape the canopy of leaves. The deer are gone from the woods. Searchlights take their place and rake the dark sky when droning engines are heard overhead and the city is alight with leaping flames. But, in a twinkling of an eye, the buildings and lights disappear. Peace returns and the great tree is revered once more. A fence is erected around it and the ancient limbs are supported by chains, for fear of collapse. In summer, tourists and picnickers arrive. They park their cars on a gritty patch where the voles, rabbits, badgers and foxes used to live amongst the greenery. The visitors read the notice, which bears a nosegay of the tree's own distinctive leaves, and seem content to admire what is left of the majestic wild wood as they try to stop their children ignoring the fence and climbing too far up into the gnarled branches, where the bees still hover. The track which once saw the passage of bare feet, of hooves, of wooden wheels and marching boots is no more; in its stead are four lanes of black tarmac edged by shining metal barriers and unhappy grey bushes. The constant roar of vehicles passing along it ensures that silence has disappeared from the greenwood - perhaps for ever? The forest has shrunk. The winter storms arrive with increased vigour, unpredictable violence and inflict greater punishment. The winds howl with primeval energy to attack the pollution-blackened limbs of the major oak causing it to bend before the blast. The storm renews its force under slaten clouds, slashing the upper branches and sending ice-bound rain of unprecedented, biblical, intensity to soak the crevassed bark. Like a revengeful breath through the gritted teeth of the injured world, the tempest rages - as if to curse invasive human endeavour, interference and self interest. Lightning cuts the darkness as the wind rips off, first twigs, then whole limbs, spitting ice and debris along the old forest floor. For almost a millennium the oak has provided, sheltered, nurtured, fruited, but finally, isolated, aged and weakened, it gives a last shudder and splits with a sickening crack before the power of the storm. The heartwood, fresh and vital even now, splinters as the great timbers fall onto the carpet of its own shattered self, biting into the fecund, acorn-rich litter of the earth and causing the land, again, to tremble. * In the days that follow, humans, holding clip-boards, and wearing plastic helmets, yellow jackets and rubber boots, pick their way around the sad debris, the broken remains of the old tree. They climb over the corpse, heedlessly, unseeingly, trampling on the delicate, hexagonally-patterned, fragments of the bees' nest. They take photos. Shout into phones. One of them kicks a fallen limb of the ancient one and turns to his colleague: “No problem now then with Conservation Issues - or planning gripes. I'm sure we'll get the go-ahead ASAP.” He grins. “Then we can clear the lot.” The other man looks around at the destruction, slips his phone into his pocket. “ Yeah. Best result we could hope for really.”


Beyond all of the stories you might hear passed or told, you may always take comfort in the idea that perhaps they are not real. I am going to quickly take away that one comfort that you have clung to. What I tell you, nay, what I rave to you is the utter truth. Perhaps that should make it more than a story, but a warning. A warning, to never look upon the stars. A short amount of backstory before I begin in earnest. I always had peculiar dreams, but oftentimes the worst moments were before I went to sleep. The time where I sat in that darkness and thoughts raced faster than your mind. These thoughts are a benign experience to a person. Perhaps it was a prior experience, or maybe you had too much electronic time before bed. Easily explained, easily dismissed. Well, until one fateful night which will live as I live. It began as most things do in the night. A moment of delirium there, a spectacular display of your mind over here, but most importantly was the thoughts. You know the thoughts I speak, the half-formed ones that sit on your waking tongue. Aye, I believe that all of you do know of what I speak. I remember these times like a blur, as when the countryside became a single conglomerate of green and browns on long road trips. These thoughts hardly mean anything, but I remember it so unbelievably clearly still.  The world became quiet. Utterly quiet. This was an odd thing to me because I had tinnitus, so these moments of true quiet were a welcomed moment. Something to be welcomed as a dear old friend comes to visit before a long journey they don't intend to come back from. A thought startled me then, thought about the stars. I remember writing it down, and I will transpose it here.  " The stars, when they are so close. When the sky is so low you can hear the crackling of the fires, like the crickets at night or the gulls above the ocean. You can't reach for them, because it is something we can't reach, only something to aspire to reach. "  Well, I had that thought. It was a half-thought, not given very much time to formulate in one's head. More of something that you believed without reason than something that you didn't believe with reason. It was shortly after that I felt that I should try, really try, to grab one of the stars. I concentrated. I lay down upon my bed, and I had never been so comfortable before. I took one of my hands and stretched it out from my shoulder to as far as I could extend it into the air in front of me. I imagined myself in that place with the stars. I suppose you could call it space if you were a romantic.  Then I gripped one of the stars, closed in a fist that my hand had formed around it. I dragged it down out of the sky, and then I opened my hand. It was the most trembling of moments. The light was blinding, yet my eyes did not close. I was alone in that darkness, a floating form in a vast empty space. In my hands lay a star, one plucked out of the sky. I looked upon it, and let the light flow over me. It was the most unbelievably expansive moment of my life. It felt as if it lasted hours, but it could have been no more than a moment. No more than a moment was all it took. I cried then, the first time in a decade. It was not a trembling beast, nor some alien entity, it was myself.  It was everything I had done, my sin's laid bare to myself. For a while, I cried and shook inconceivably, and yet I found myself laughing. Laughing because this was it, the truth. The truth I sought about myself so much, and it was laid in front of me. At that moment I hated myself but found an acceptance as well. It gave me strength. Yet it was a strength given, not taken. I resolved to make myself a better person, for I could not live with what I had done. I fell asleep shortly after, although I could give you no exact time. I found that upon waking I felt good, great even. It was the best sleep I had had in years.  Yet time stands still for no man, least of all. The next day, I had risen. I felt good. I continued on, resolving to be a better person. I failed spectacularly and shortly fell into old habits. I was lazy, and overall not a good person in my most private of moments. Then I felt what it really was, it was not some blessing. It was a curse, a penance. It spoke against your nature and gave you goals beyond what you could achieve. It drives you mad, to know what you want so desperately, and to know that you have not the strength to do it. Oh yes, completely and utterly mad.  Thus events lead us here. The present. I feel it calling, always. A desire to look upon the star once more and see judgment. Yet I am scared too. I have phrased it many a time differently but when it comes down to it, I am just scared. I am scared because I know what that Star is. It's a door, a door to madness. I have the keys to it, and I can't get rid of them. It calls to me, not in some schizophrenic voice way, but it's there. In a way, it's comforting. I can leave everything behind, with just a turn of a nob.  You may question the horror in this story. You may sit down and state your beliefs, but of this I remind you. You no longer have the comfort of maybe, perhaps, it was all a story. You forfeited that when you read this story. That is the horror of it, that no matter what you think, you are a witness. You will imagine that star eventually, and it will change you. Some of you sooner than others. By telling you, I have damned you. I am sorry, and that is truthful.  Now, I am on the edge. I take deep breaths, my hands move deftly on the keyboard. My room smells of old socks, the hallway of filthy water. My screen is slightly too bright and puts a strain on my eyes. The lower of my back aches slightly because of how I have been sitting. The one light in my room is off. The room is deathly quiet.  The light is off because I am going to look upon the star again tonight.


That summer I'd been hired as a temporary replacement drummer for the band backing bluesman Jailhouse Lemon Lee on a tour through the southwest. In the small hours on the road from somewhere to someplace, I asked Lee, then in his late 70s and blind since birth, how he managed to hold his own in the endless nickel and dime Five Card Stud games that we played to kill the road hours. I suspected that as the New Guy that I was being set up as a mark in a long con because I'd played in dozens of games and while Lee didn't consistently win, he rarely lost big. I couldn't figure out how he did it. I asked. From behind his aviator sunglasses Lee told me he used mirrors. Then he chuckled and settled back in his seat and started quietly chanting lyrics to songs unwritten, his baritone barely above a whisper, the music more felt than heard. The blues poetry of midnight trains and hound dogs, of prison, times good and times hard, and throughout ran the thread of love and lost and loved and lost again, all in 16 bars. And then he was finished. I should have left the lingering magic alone, but I didn't. "But how do you see things? How do you know those playing cards? How can you even describe a color like pink? Spell broken, we were back on the tour bus with diesel fumes and near-sprung shocks, stale beer, snoring, road thrum. The eastern sky hinted pale blue. He sighed, like a man explaining a simple concept to a child: pink was meeting the girl next door for the first time, your first kiss, how she looked on her wedding day, your first child, and how you chose to remember her the last time you were with her, when friends and family quietly stepped out of the room to give you some last time alone. He was a widower pushing three decades by that time. He never spilled about the playing cards. But that's how he explained the color pink.


The umbrella in our yard was bright pink and had a giant slice torn out of it the morning I went to the porch after the rains had hit our town. I recalled my mother had bought the umbrella at an estate sale for around three dollars; how excited she was to bring it home and plant it on our back porch. Well. Now it was in tatters, not unlike the rest of the yard, which had flooded last night in the storms. I didn’t want to tell my mother her prized umbrella was broken now, but she would notice soon enough. She managed to notice everything. I walked closer to inspect the damage. What caught my eye, though, wasn’t the brightness of the umbrella or the large gash breaking it down the middle, but instead a little green bug wrapped around the base of the pole. It was a caterpillar. I thought about throwing it off the porch because my parents would be mad if it got to the porch garden and chewed through the leaves, but the thought better of it. What did the caterpillar ever do to us, huh? Instead of flicking the tiny fiend, I let it crawl up my arm. “I think I can find a jar for you, buddy.” I said as I walked into the kitchen and, as expected, found a jar for the caterpillar. Luckily for me, I had been to kindergarten so I did know how to raise the bug. Give it some sugar water, let it make a cocoon thing, release it when it was a beautiful butterfly. Easy, easy, so easy. Right? Well, as it turned out, the only easy part of raising this butterfly was getting it off the umbrella pole, because the next morning when I looked at the jar, there wasn’t a caterpillar there at all, but instead a nasty, glinty eyed mini dwarf. It was sitting on a broken stick I put in the jar and staring up at me through deep black eyes. I backed up and hit the back of my shins on the bed behind me. “Are you a mini dwarf?” I asked it, and then I realized that the lid was still on the jar. I unscrewed the lid and peered in. “Are you a mini dwarf?” I asked it again. “No, I’m the queen of England.” “Um, really? The last time I checked she wasn’t two inches tall.” The mini dwarf leapt off his seat and kicked the glass wall. “Well, the last time I checked, I didn’t ask you for these accommodations, buddy!” “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what to say. I thought I was helping, honestly. But this little mini dwarf, this little beady eyed freak, was absolutely livid with me and I knew what guys like him could do to humans. Especially me. “I didn’t mean to capture you. I thought you were a caterpillar.” “You were wrong.” “Yeah, I know that now, thanks for the reminder.” I peered deeper into the jar. The mini dwarf had a shock of blue hair and an orange beard. He reminded me of a fruit snack, only harder to get along with. “What’s your name, and then I’ll let you go.” “What’s your name?” “Phillop.” It’s a lame variation of the Phillip because my parents tried to be original and just made me sound like a moron every time I said my name. What kind of accent is that, people would ask me, and I’d have to explain that I wasn’t from anywhere exciting, just the small town of Drixmin, and they’d laugh and laugh. “That’s a stupid name, Phillop. I have a much, much better name than you do.” “Is it Shrek?” The mini dwarf didn’t appreciate that comment. “Nooo, Shrek is an ogre and I am a mini dwarf of the blue and orange beard variety and my name is Marmalade.” “Um.” Marmalade scoffed. “You don’t like that name? Too bad because now that I know your name, I am your ruler.” Oh. Fae. “I don’t think that means you rule me. Maybe I owe you something, like a coupon for three in one shampoo, or my firstborn child...” Marmalade chucked at this. “You’re never going to have children, Phillop, and if you did, they wouldn’t be very attractive.” That was rude, but probably true. “I don’t want your firstborn child and the only three in one shampoo I can use is available only at the Fae Walmart of Vancouver.” “What do you want, then, man?” “Don’t call me man.” Marmalade crossed his arms. “I think that you should have to come with me on my next trip.” This worried me. What kind of trip would a little bitty mini dwarf have to go on? Was his travel insurance printed out on the backs of fun sized chocolate bars? “I don’t know about this. It was an accident, you know, me capturing you. If you had been a caterpillar I would have let you go as soon as you were a butterfly. Plus, you were disguised as a bug. How was I supposed to know you were a member of the fae?” “What kind of caterpillar is blue and orange, Phillop?” “A neat one? I don’t know! But I have school.” I did have school. Not that I liked it all that much, but I’d like summer school even less. “I have a family!” I had a family that was never home, but surely they’d miss me if I was gone. “I have friends.” I had two people I sat at lunch with that would be upset if I wasn’t there to share my egg salad with. “And...” this was my crowning glory, “I have a girl friend.” That was true. Kind of. “Sure you do, Phil. I think you should pack up your bag and we can get a move on my nightfall. See, when I said I wanted you to come on a trip with me, I meant my vacation to the leprechaun realm. They’re having a fantastic party that I would hate to miss.” “Um, what do you need me for, then?” “Human sacrifices do spectacularly at the buffet table.” My eyes widened. “Nope.” I swallowed hard and sat back down on the bed. “I really don’t like that plan.” “I didn’t think you’d be thrilled.” Marmalade ran his hands through his beard. “But it must be done if you want to pay off your debt.” “ Dude, if I am being used as a human sacrifice at a fae buffet table, why does it matter if I pay my debt off or not?” “You know, there is another option. You won’t like it any better though.” “No, no. Tell me what it is. It could work. Anything is better than this option, honestly.” Marmalade nodded smugly. “Alright.” He rubbed his hands together malevolently. “I’ll take your girlfriend instead.” “Wait, no.” That wouldn’t work either. That definitely, definitely wouldn’t work. Where was the wiggle room with this deal? “It’s either me or her?” Marmalade picked his teeth with his dirty nails and shrugged. “Yeah, that’s the deal.” “Well, that is a terrible deal.” “She’s not really your girlfriend though.” This was correct. Sabine Monte was not technically my girlfriend. In fact, she was nobody's girlfriend. In fact fact, she wasn’t even alive and had never been alive to begin with. I made her up at a party in eighth grade when I spun the bottle and landed on the unibrowed, tuna breathed Tina Lard. I panicked and said Sabine, my very real, very not imaginary girlfriend, would kill me if I kissed Tina. It got me out of that trouble, but now I was in some more trouble and it involved me being a human sacrifice. “Yes, she is!” This could maybe work. “Sabine is my girlfriend and she’s real and she would be happy to join you for you leprechaun party but she’s so smart, she would make it out of there alive. I dare you,” I stood up again and pointed at the glass jar, “I dare you to try and keep her for your ridiculous, not to mention inhumane, buffet table.” “I accept your challenge, young human.” Craaaaaaaapola. “Fine. I’ll call her.” I picked up my phone from the bedside table and scrolled through my contact list looking for some girl unfortunate enough to have my number. As I scrolled through the short list, I caught a glimpse of my pasty face in the phone’s backlight. I looked like a toad. A fat, bloated, contaminated by chemicals in the lake toad. Grooossss. I clicked further down my phone list. There was someone I could call... but considering this was the girl who I had refused to kiss in eighth grade, she probably wouldn’t be happy to hear from me. Tina Lard. I changed her contact name to Sabine Monte (girlfriend) and showed the screen to Marmalade. “Here she is.” Her contact picture was one of Natalie Portman, but chances were Marmalade had no idea who she was, so in his book she could be Sabine Monte. This was my first mistake, because if Tina Lard showed up to the leprechaun party, she would most certainly not look like Natalie Portman, right? Righttt. “Call her.” I gave the mini dwarf a thumbs up and called Tina. The phone rang twice and then a voice answered. It sounded different, but for sure it was Tina. Maybe she’d had her braces taken off or something. That was another one of the reasons I hadn’t wanted to kiss her; because I had braces too and I had always bought into the myth that if two people with braces kissed, well, they’d be stuck together forever and all of eternity, which didn’t seem like a terrific fate for me. “Who’s this? I don’t have the number saved.” “Oh, hey, Sabine.” “Sorry, wrong number, my name’s Tina.” “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s a great name. This is me, um, your boyfriend, um, Phillop. I know after our last argument we’ve been on the rocks, but I need you. You’re smart, you can get through this. Come over, please?” “Are you crazy? I haven’t talked to you in like three years! I don’t know you anymore. I’m not coming to your house.” “Please? I need you.” This was getting awkward... “I need you to come to my house. There’s an issue.” “What kind of issue?” “A fae issue!” “Oh.” “Yeah, oh. So can you help me? You’re the smartest person I know and I think you’re the only one who can help me get out of this. Please?” “I’m not doing anything else so I guess I’ll be there in five minutes.” “You live really close by?” “Nope, I can teleport. Yes, I live close by. See you soon, weirdo.” Who was she calling a weirdo? Last time I talked to her she was the one who was extraordinarily strange. She cosplayed as a toaster for the fifth grade cosplay ball! “She’s on her way, Marmalade.” “Good luck... Phillop.” I glared at the non caterpillar. “You’re mean.” “No kidding! I thought I was akin to the Easter Bunny! ” The doorbell rang. Tina Lard had arrived. “You’d better go get that, stud.” Marmalade grinned from his jar. He picked up the bottle cap of sugar water and threw it back like he was at a little tiny fae frat party. I ran down the stairs and opened the door, but Tina Lard wasn’t there. Instead she had been replaced by... by someone else who sounded like Tina had on the phone, but had two whole separate eyebrows and, considering she was on my doorstep, she was close enough to me that I could tell her breath didn’t smell like tuna anymore. She looked like a whole different Tina Lard. Was it possible there were two Tina Lard’s in the county? No? Maybe? Or. Was it just true that the ugly duckling made the most beautiful swans? “What did you get yourself into now?” “I thought a mini dwarf was a caterpillar and I captured it and now it wants to take me to a leprechaun party as a... as, um, a human sacrifice.” Tina Lard scowled. “You want me to be the human sacrifice?” “Not at all! I know you’re smart enough to not be a human sacrifice!” Tina crossed her arms in front of her chest. “This seems like a trick.” “It’s not a trick, I promise!” I lowered my voice. “Look, I can show you the mini dwarf, he’s upstairs in a glass drawer.” Tina resolved to step inside, but as she did she tripped and held out her hand. I grabbed it to stop her from falling and... Tina Lard’s wings sprouted from her back, orange and blue as a monarch butterfly. Seems that now I owed favor’s to two fae, not just one. A name and a hand had become my chain and ball.


Stella of Vault 21: 1, The Sea of Sand. A girl roams the endless sea of sand in search of food, water, shelter, anything. As the sun sets she begins to become more and more hopeless she drinks the last of the purified water as she crawls under a rock outcropping. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Taking out her blanket and lying down in the small alcove. she turns over and sees the lights of New Vegas. A tear rolls down her cheek. She thinks of her past home the only place she knew, Vault 21. She misses it, her family, her friends, her home. She remembers how her family would roll dice every night to see who got the extra food ration. Her first job was at the general store. Her Nuka Cola Collection at this point she tried to stop herself from crying to prevent herself from getting dehydrated but she couldn't. She soon fell asleep. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Waking up sometime later she realizes in the alcove is a door, this door leading to a vault entrance, Vault 11. Hoping someone is inside she activates the intercom. \_ "Hello," she says \- "Is anyone in there" \- "I'm from Vault 21 please answer" Nothing She asks once again but no response so out of desperation she loads up her Pipboy 3000 and opens the door. With a loud screech of rusted metal and steel, the door opens. She cringes back trying to cover her ears. Now open she realizes something is off. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ "Next time on Stella of Vault 21: Will she find food or water within this derelict vault? What horrors await inside? \- Tune in next time to find out.


My first year in the United States was a complete culture shock to me. A huge part of this was the food. It was difficult to get authentic Asian food; you had to go to specialty stores to get the basics. And in the normal aisles? I had no idea what a lucky charm was, or why you'd have it for breakfast. A PB&J was a foreign, strange acronym that was supposedly a lunch staple. I mean why the fuck would you put something salty with something sweet!? A pop tart was a piece of bread, slathered with icing, then swallowed with sugar and vomited into a box. And school was even worse. This was one of the roughest periods of my life and school was a major component of that. My parents hadn't taught me anything to prepare for our move; they didn't know any English. So imagine, as a young kid, coming over to a new country you had only seen rarely in a movie (and as we all know, the one city you always see is only New York), going to a new school, and not being able to communicate with your peers. It was hellish, and I don't use that word lightly. It meant instant social ostracisation. There were no other Chinese kids in my class, and the teacher had to essentially smile and nod and hope for the best whenever I spoke (which, as you can imagine, was not often). Oh, by the way, my name “Tommy”? It was a result of my kindergarten teacher inability to pronounced my actual name, Toan Ly (Its two syllable!), so she decided to name me Tommy, like some sort of Asian pets she just adopted. After the first week, I was being picked on every day. Everyone seemed to join in on the bullying and I had no one to turn to. I couldn't even tell the teacher they were bullying me, not that I would have - I was too scared to. And I couldn't tell my parents. I had neither the courage nor the resolve to do so, as this would mean I've somehow failed in our big move; the move being, obviously, a huge step forward for our family. They seemed to be adjusting fine, or, more realistically, they didn't let me in on their difficulties. And so I didn't want to be the only one having trouble, and they were left in the dark. I used to hide in the bathroom stall and cry. Every lunch time, I'd run out of class before the teasing and bullying could start, I'd quickly find the nearest bathroom, I'd pick a stall and I'd sit on the closed toilet, knees pulled up to my face, crying my eyes out. I still tear up thinking of the despair felt by younger me in those moments. But something happened during my second week. I came out of my stall after my usual routine and an older boy came up to me, asking what was wrong. I was stunned - I could understand him. He spoke Cantonese! I was absolutely shocked. I couldn't believe it. He must have noticed my face; one or two bruises, and red from the tears. I couldn't even speak, I just stared at him. He told me it was going to be alright, and took me by the hand to the school office. The first gift he gave me was acting as translator, meaning I could actually communicate with the school officials and the teacher. I'm sure he was infuriated by the lack of facilities for new immigrants adjusting to the school, as he probably was once, and took it upon himself to help me not go through what he must have had to go through. The teacher was called in and I promptly explained in Cantonese, happy as anything with my new translator by my side, what had been going on. I'm sure my translator/new friend added some things, as he and the teacher spoke a bit without my input. The teacher left and I went back to class, thanking the older boy. I still didn't know his name, and I actually never would, not to this day. But his tale isn't over. He invited me to have lunch with him on the next break, later that day. I think the kids engaged in my torment were spoken to; I'm not certain, but it more or less ceased from that point on. I went to the lunch hall, and excitedly found my new friend. He introduced me to the rest of his Cantonese speaking friends, opening up a whole new world of social interaction and acceptance. Finally I had some people to just speak with! A whole revelation had been made and I was chatting away to them in my own language. I was no longer ostracised wholesale; I was included in something and that made all the difference. That same lunch break, after eating, the older boy had me come with him, and he approached the white kids who had been bullying me. I didn't understand a word he said to them in English except a lot of expletives. He pointed at me a few times, then himself, and the table of Chinese kids we just left. The conversation went something like this; “(pointing at them) *Fucking* (gibberish) *fuck* (gibberish) (pointing at me) *fucker* (gibberish) (pointing at himself, then the table of our friends) *fucking* (gibberish) (pointing at me) *fuck* (gibberish).” If I repeated any of those words at home my dad would have beaten me to death. But my older Chinese saviour with reckless abandon managed to scare those kids enough to stay away from me for the next year. I saw their wide eyes and frightened looks. I called him “Big Brother” in Cantonese after that, still not knowing his name, and it stuck for the whole year. I spent every lunch break with him and his (now my) friends, we hung out after school and he helped me adjust; he helped me to learn English, he helped with my schoolwork. He was the kindest boy I had ever met in my life and to this day I am so thankful for his existence. I wish I could thank him today. But it wasn't meant to be. The next school year, I went to a different school, and I never saw him again. But I've thought about him many times since, and I sincerely wish he's doing well. He deserves to, for giving that new, little Chinese kid crying in the stall a lifeline he longed for, and truly turning the darkness to light in his mind.