[AA] Background: I plan to start a series in the adventure/mystery/horror/action genre, based off Batman, Sherlock from BBC, Harry Potter, Mission Impossible, and John Wick. The main character is an "immortal" special ops agent and private eye, solving complex and unnatural cases and taking down evil organizations. He gains immortality from an experiment that involves injecting pieces of Wood from the True Cross, and those conducting it know about the agents secret bloodline; his ancestors were tasked with guarding the Holy Grail. [A part in which i want to add to the beginning, where Markus saves an old woman and learns of his "immortality" ability]: Suddenly on the nearby street, a car whooshed down the lane, amidst the busy people walking about. An elderly woman, was crossing the streey and didnt see the car. Markus knew he had to do something, but if he did, hed be late for work. "Ah screw it. Whats a few minutes time when a life is at stake?" He thought as he ran over to the crosswalk in an adrenaline fueled pace. His suitcase and coffee hit the sidewalk. Markus grabbed the old woman and put himself infront of the out-of-control Mazda. The driver froze as the brakes continued to fail, along with the wheel swiveling. Life flashed through the womans eyes as she held onto Mark for dear life. He pushed her in a split second to the grass on other side of the crosswalk. Mark threw out his free hand in a stopping motion to the car while shielding the lady. "STO....." Bang! Before he could finish, the hood of the car slammed into Marks body and he went flying several inches. Glass shards and pain enamated out from the scene. The people nearby gasped in horror as they just witnessed a man being plowed by a vehicle. "Someone call 911!" A man said. "He saved the woman!" Another person shrieked. Kids cried upon seeing the hero in the car accident. The old lady got up and looked upon him with eyes of guilt and worry. "Car accident, on Bellings Street! We need to send them there now!" The paramedic shouted. The ambulance rushed to the scene. The driver of the car lay in the wrecakge. He remained a statue amidst the rubble. People cleared the debris so the medics could finally treat him. "Oh man! Theres two unconscious! The driver, he has died!" A doctor sadly exclaimed after trying to revive the poor driver. Mark was a bloody mess, and unconscious, laying on the road. The paramedics put him on a stretcher after checking his pulse. No good. While loading him on the ambulance, Mark woke up to everyones surprise. "Sir. Hes alive!!!" Said one of the med techs. "Breathe now sir, and slowly. Stay calm." Another said while wiping off the blood on his face. "Did I save her? The elderly woman....." Mark reached out to the doctor with his little but building strength. He couldn't fathom what had happened. "Sir, shes ok, shes right here." The old woman placed her hand on Marks chest and said thank you for saving her life. "I thought you died. There was so much blood. I couldnt bear to live with the fact that my clumsiness almost got a nice stranger like you killed. Im so sorry" she said in paused sections between sobbing. "You are most welcome. Dont worry about me, somehow, I'm ok. Whats most important is that you are and that you got out of the way of the vehicle. " Mark wiped the tears from the ladys thankful face. At the close by Hospital, Markus rested as the doctors further treated his wounds. Two doctors stood outside his door, having heard what happened and wanted to make sure he was ok. "Several broken bones, fractures, and glass injuries, not to mention the force of the car... how did he survive?" The first doctor watched as Markus was being treated. "I dont know, but he must be a guardian angel, and thankfully he saved a life." the other answered, knowing that his Mom returned safely later that day after doing some shopping downtown.


**CONTENT WARNING: This story contains depictions of violence, mental health struggle, drug abuse, and overdose** “CUT!” Thomas yells just as I start my last line of dialogue. I throw my head back and close my eyes. I open them to find Thomas standing behind the camera with his glasses perched on his forehead and his fingers massaging between his eyes in frustration. The crew around him is silent, waiting and wondering, is he gonna blow up again? We’re in a tiny room in a dirty house; Thomas always insists on shooting on location, to try and capture the authenticity of the places and lives the people in his movies live every day. He hates using sound stages and built sets because they’re “sterile and comfortable and they neuter performances,” which means the cast and crew are crammed into “real” sets to bake under hot lights and smell each other’s sweat. Thomas is considered the modern Kubrick , and everyone keeps telling me how much of a genius he is and how good this will be for my career, and how this script just smells like an “Oscar,” and don’t worry about his outbursts, it’ll all be worth it; he’s just trying to make the best movie he can. Well, If he’s Kubrick, I’m Shelly Fucking Duvall. Except for his last one. It was a bomb; the largest budget he's ever worked with and it was a flop. The studio lost millions. That was a few years ago, and he’s had a hard time getting any projects off the ground. That’s where I come in. My career is on the upswing. Last year I was in a movie called Underneath Hawk’s Head and overnight, I went from struggling actress to being given offers left right, and center. That’s when the offer for this movie came in, and my agent jumped all over it. “This is the one!” he said. I had reservations about my still unfilmed nude scene, but he assured me it would be worth it. But when I went for my audition, Thomas wasn’t even there. I think they had conditions around the financing of the movie, me being one of them. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been Thomas’s first or even his last pick. There’s contempt all over his face whenever he looks at me like I’m some foul thing he’s just found rotting at the bottom of some forgotten cupboard. Finally, Thomas breaks the silence. “Wha-“ he starts before he lets some breath out of his nose. “What the fuck was that?” he says, blinking at me. I can’t help but scoff as I begin to answer; diva, I’ve been called a few times. “I was try-” “AH!” he says, cutting me off. “Not a fucking word.” He turns to the rest of the crew. “That’s it for now folks. We’re fifteen days behind schedule and we’ve been here for twelve hours and it’s obvious that we’re not going to get what we want today. Leave everything up and we’ll start fresh tomorrow.” I roll my eyes and begin to try and squeeze my way around the crew as they start to turn off the lights and equipment. I can feel their relief as they whisper to each other, “Well, it could’ve been worse.” Thomas is seething and his eyes burn into my back as I leave. Finally, I step out the front door of the dirty little house and into the fresh air. * * * There’s a pounding at my trailer door and I’m sure it’s him. Here we go, I think as I head towards the door. I barely get it open before his foot is on the first step. He doesn’t say anything as I back away to make room. For a minute we’re silent, sizing each other up. We’ve been shooting for thirty days and it’s been tense. I steel myself for battle. “Thomas, I-” “No,” he says. “I’m the director and I speak first.” I cross my arms and set my weight on one leg. “Fine,” I say, “Go ahead.” He starts quietly, “I don’t need your fucking permission!” The end is loud and sharp. I can’t help but flinch. I’ve already given up ground. “I am this close to replacing you,” he says gesturing less than an inch with his finger and thumb. “I don’t give a fuck what the studio will say. I never even wanted you for the part but you’re the ‘next big star,’” he says mockingly. I don’t care if he’s the director. “I am thirty-five years old,” I start, “There won’t be any roles for me in ten years and I have more than paid my fucking dues and I fucking deserve to be here. I’m a good actress and I am doing exactly what you’re asking me but I don’t know why that’s not good enough for you!” Now his face is red and his mouth is pinched like a snake about to spit venom. “You are a dime-a-dozen actress who got lucky with one part and you do NOT get to critique your performance. That’s my fucking job! “I’m not trying to do your job! Tell me what you want!” I scream. “BE A FUCKING MOTHER!” he screams back. “You play a mother so fucking act like one! I know you don’t have kids but you have a goddamn mother don’t you? Or you must fucking know some mothers and children? You are human aren’t you?” A cut deeper than he could imagine. He doesn’t know. Nobody knows. Nobody knows that the day I was cast I found out that I was pregnant. And nobody knows that the week before we started filming, I miscarried. I’ve been trying to pretend that I’m OK and it’s OK. I keep telling myself that I’m struggling with my performance for this reason or that reason; it’s Thomas, the small sets, the script, the heat. Or maybe it’s that I’m pretty sure Josh is sleeping with his secretary and that he breathed a sigh of relief when I went to the hospital bleeding. The point is, maybe it’s none of that. Maybe Thomas is right without knowing why he’s right. Maybe I’m struggling to feel the story or character too deeply. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m doing the best that I can. These thoughts rush through my head just as his mouth is wrapping up the last syllable. And it’s the sting of these thoughts that raises my hand and my own private... what? Shame? Guilt? Fear? Loss? Whatever it is, it makes me slap him across the face. Hard. The fleshy smack echoes off the walls of the trailer. Then the pressure of his hand around my throat in an instant, cutting off my breath. I’m making choking noises and clawing at his hairy hand. I start trying to claw at his face but that just makes him squeeze tighter. “You hit me one more time and you’ll never work again,” he says before letting me go with a push. I stumble backward and bump into the small table, gasping for breath. “I don’t want to reshoot this whole goddamn mess so you have one more day to get it together. One,” he says as he starts to head for the door. He puts his hand on the handle and stops before leaving the trailer. “Maybe a good goddamn choke was what you needed. Maybe I’m lucky and I just choked some life into you instead of out of you,” he says with a dark, sadistic grin. A grin that makes my stomach turn so badly that I rush to the little sink once he’s gone and begin to puke, the strain burning my bruised throat. * * * My phone rings as I pull into the parking lot of the plaza. It’s Riley, the assistant director. He is a sweet man who takes far too much of Thomas’s shit. But he’s very good with handling us and the crew and making sure we’re being cared for. As much as he can anyway. “Hello?” I say. “Hi, are you all right?” he asks. “Yeah, I’m OK.” “OK. Everybody heard you and Thomas shouting in your trailer and I just wanted to check in. I know things have been rough.” “Yeah, it has been rough.” “He’s just under a lot of pressure. The last movie and the studio breathing down his neck... I’m really sorry he’s being so hard on you. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing fine.” Fine. Not great. Fine . That’s Hollywood for “terrible.” “I’m fine really,” I say as I rub my quickly swelling throat. “All right... Well, I just wanted you to know that Thomas altered the schedule so you’re off the call sheet until Thursday. They’re gonna spend some time shooting a few of the school scenes so you can relax.” Anger and sadness wash over me simultaneously. That fucker doesn’t give a shit about giving me some days off, he’s worried about the bruises on my throat. He wants to give them some time to heal. I consider telling Riley, but that will be the end of the shoot. The movie will never get made and I’ll have to deal with the media fallout of being choked by a director. They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity but I’d still rather star in a movie than star in the tabloids at the checkout counter... “Caroline? Are you still there?” Riley asks. I realize my throat is tight while I teeter on the edge of bursting into tears. My hand is gripping the phone so tightly that it’s cramping. I clear my throat and there’s pain. “Yeah, sorry. A couple of days off sounds nice. Thanks for checking in.” “Caroline... If you ever need anything, just let me know, really. I’m here to help. “Thanks, Riley...” * * * The road is empty and I’m driving 90 in a 60. The top is down and the wind is blowing my hair back while I’ve got an open bottle of wine riding shotgun. I stopped at the plaza for just one but it turned into a case after Riley’s phone call. My radio is cranked and I’m singing my Dad’s favorite Jackson Browne song as loud as I can, not caring how much my throat hurts or my voice cracks. He listened to it nonstop after my Mom left or whenever he was sad, a tradition I’ve carried on. I remember that a friend of mine gave me some pills after the miscarriage, to take my mind away for a little while and help me sleep. I haven’t taken any yet, but maybe tonight is a good night to try. * * * It’s 5:30 am. I don’t know how I remembered that it’s Thursday but I did. The pills worked as promised but one turned into two, into three into- I lost count. Between the chalky doses of oblivion and the wine, My head is pounding. But the bruises are gone and the time out of mind was refreshing. Blissful. Now I’m struggling to keep the coffee I don’t remember buying down, but I have to. I can’t show how terrible I feel. I walk into the makeup trailer and Dana greets me. “Hi sweetie, how are you? Are you OK? I heard about what happened the last day you were on set,” she says with a concerned look. You don’t know half of it, I think as I take my jacket and sunglasses off. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. I think we just had to air some things out. It was a tough day of shooting,” I say, taking my seat. I see my face for the first time in a couple of days; I look like shit. My eyes look like two pissholes in a snowbank. Dana looks at her assistant Julie and they share a concerned look. “Really, I’m fine,” I say. I might be trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince them. “I just didn’t sleep well last night, I was thinking about my scenes today. We’re shooting the scene where the principal comes to the house. Kind of a heavy one.” Dana starts running her hands through my hair, “Honey, didn’t you get the message? You’re not shooting that scene today...” she says. Panic rises in my throat. My facade is cracking. I pull out my phone. I realize I haven’t looked at it since I got back to the hotel with my case of wine and oblivion on my mind. I have a hundred and twenty text messages, nineteen voicemails, and thirty-six missed calls. I can feel embarrassment burning on my cheeks. “No, I didn’t get any messages because my phone was all screwed up. It just started working this morning. Didn’t anybody call the hotel?” I say a little too quickly. “I thought they said they did.” “Ugh, that hotel is the worst. I’m gonna have to talk to them about how important it is that I get messages like that!” I say. Is it the right amount of anger? Am I believable? Or am I totally transparent? “Well, what scenes are we shooting today?” I ask. Dana looks uncomfortable now. “They’re- Well- You- You’re shooting your nude scene today...” she says quietly. My hand shoots up to my forehead in shock. “You’re joking?” I say. That bastard. He’s punishing me. He’s trying to make me quit or give himself a good excuse to fire me. The rest of this shoot is going to be even worse than before. I shouldn’t have slapped him. Dana shakes her head slowly. “Sorry hon, I wish I was,” she says. I see her eyes dart in the mirror to the prickly growth under my arm. I put my hand down quickly. “Are you OK?” she asks again. She knows I’m not. “No, yeah, I’m fine. Just a little surprised is all.” “Do you want me to go get Riley?” she asks, putting her hand on my shoulder. My hand instinctively goes to hers. “Oh my God, no, I’ll be all right. Like I said, just surprised. Like they say,” My voice is a little choked now and I can feel my eyes going redder, “the show must go on.” “If you’re sure...” she says hesitantly. “No, no, I’ll be OK...” “All right.” She turns to Julie and says quietly, “Can you grab a razor?” Then she turns back to me, “Honey, why don’t you just take a nice hot shower and relax? Take as long as you need. If you’re late to the set I’ll tell them it’s my fault.” Now the tears start down my face. “OK,” I say. “OK.” I’m suddenly acutely aware that I don’t remember when I showered last. I look at myself in the mirror and realize through the fog just how greasy my hair is and the dark circles under my eyes. Dana leans down and gives me a hug around my neck. “It’ll be all right honey. It’ll be all right...” * * * Dana and Julie have gone and I’m alone in the trailer. Julie handed me a fresh razor before she left. I start to get undressed and panic begins to grip me. My breath comes faster and faster but I can’t breathe deep enough. My hands are shaking as I take my top off and I’m getting light-headed. I pull my jeans down and pick them up to set them on the back of a chair. As I’m folding them, something falls to the floor, rattling. The panic stops. It’s the pill bottle. I pick the bottle up and turn it in my hand, watching the little white pills tumble down the sides. I don’t remember putting them in my jeans. I shouldn’t. I don’t remember what time it was when I took them last. Or how many I took. But... I look towards the door. There’s no one coming. Then I look in the mirror. I don’t recognize the face staring back at me. Instead of me, I see a dirty, greasy, feral animal standing in her underwear with a bottle of pills in her hand. Fuck it. I pop the bottle open and grab a couple. Just a couple. To take the edge off. I have to be naked in a room full of people in a few hours. I deserve to have the edge taken off. I put the pills back in my jeans and walk over to the sink and turn the tap on. I put the pills in my mouth and bend down to drink from the running water. Just like I did as a kid. I wipe my mouth and start the shower before finishing getting undressed. * * * Noise. Far away noise. Rain? Then distant voices. “Caroline?” Is that my name? ‘CAROLINE!” It must be. The world around me gets brighter. I try to talk, to tell them something, but the words are foggy in my mind. The voices again. I’m being moved. “Call an ambulance! Oh my God, CAROLINE!” It sounds like something is wrong, but I don’t know what. I feel fine; l ike I’m flying. I try to sing the Jackson Browne song to show them I’m fine. But it’s hard. It’s strange; I can hear it but I can’t think of the words or even hum the melody. “I just need to sleep,” I try to say. Those are the words from before, the ones I couldn’t think of. “I just need to sleep. I’m fine...” * * * “We’re following a developing story out of Oklahoma this evening. Actress Caroline McCarthy has died. We know that she was starring in Thomas Ashley’s latest movie, Prairie Moon , playing a lead role. She was found unresponsive on set and taken to hospital where she was pronounced dead. McCarthy is best known for starring in last year’s surprise hit movie, Underneath Hawk’s Head, and the star was expected to have a bright future. She was thirty-five. Tim?”


Eric was a computer nerd. He accepted this as his fate in life. Ever since elementary school, he was the subject of constant bullying. His black-framed glasses, overweight size, and unkempt hair made him the subject of far too many practical jokes. These jokes hurt and cut deep. In fact, that action shaped his future. In high school, to ease the pain of lack of friends and name-calling, he considered himself a kind of computer wiz. He excelled in all his math and computer classes. In time, he retreated into his computers. Soon he was writing computer code and programs and inventing new video games. One of his ideas was to bring the world into his bedroom, his fortress of solitude. One of his unique programs would combine locations with real-time pictures of that location. Eric figured out a way to have pinpoint accuracy so that he could zero in on a particular tree, vehicle, or person. This concept was by far more advanced than anything available to anyone, including the military. Using GPS coordinates, it appeared like specific popular map programs but far superior. He was excellent at writing computer code. With the result, he was not always sure how it would turn out or how he got there. During this time, he worked at a computer tech firm to keep his knowledge current. The company loved him, but the other employees just continued the bullying of avoidance and name-calling. Soon his new life’s schedule became Monday through Friday from 7 am to 4 pm time devoted to work, and every available minute after that would be spent on updating and fine-tuning his new location program. Eric had two driving forces. One was the love of inventing a new video game and one, a different one, that of revenge. As the ideas for the new game grew, so did his revenge. He never dated and rarely left his small apartment except to shop for food or go to work. A prototype of the new game was that he was able to focus in on anything he wanted and program the game to follow that item. He first tried it out on a bus. It worked well. No matter what street the bus traveled on, the bus was crystal clear on Eric’s large monitor’s screen. He could not explain how this was possible, but it was happening. The excitement was overwhelming. There were no cameras following the bus. It was all done via a GPS system he developed by accident. The next trial of the program was to follow a person. He picked a cute young lady. He locked the application in on her location, and what happened next was beyond amazing. This young lady entered her house, closed the front door, and walked into her kitchen. Eric was stunned. She was there on his computer screen, he was staring at the monitor and watching this young lady prepare her lunch. This event was, to Eric, totally unbelievable. He could not comprehend his success. He immediately shut the computer down. A fear came over him. What if that lady found out? What if the government found out? Can I delete this information? And then he thought, maybe I should keep it because there were so many computer program levels of protection and firewalls. He rebooted the computer and opened his new program. In the search bar, he typed the last location of the young lady. Within a second or two, he was watching her again in her kitchen. From a nerd point of view, he believed he would become the greatest nerd ever. Over the next few months, while keeping the cover of employment, he continued to tweak his new video game. He found a way to delete the memory so there would be no trace back to him. He found a way to split the screen into two different locational targets. The possibilities filled his mind, also, the questions. Questions about should he keep this a secret or share this incredible invention. Eric, the nerd, kept this all to himself. Why would he share anything with a world that made fun of him and never let him join in? This was his idea, his brainchild, his way of dealing with all the pain and suffering provided by others. To Eric, life was good now. He settled into his new routine: work and this video game. His work improved as he seemed happier. He was still a friendless nerd, but his attitude changed. He went to work as positive as he could and left work as quickly as he could; he did not participate in any event his company had. He was pleasant at work, but no one ever contacted him after work. To him, this was all good. About six months later, he felt the new video game was perfect, but he had an excellent idea. He wrote it down, and for the next week, every day reviewed and studied his notes. He was torn between following the new path or just enjoying what he had. This went on for weeks. He tried hard not to let this indecision affect him, especially at work. The turning point was when a senior computer programmer at work began to ridicule him. Eric now was suffering again from fat jokes, glasses jokes, and of course, the loneliness jokes. Eric did not realize he had a lot of vacation time built up. He requested four weeks off. The company seemed relieved to give him the time off. It was a Friday his last day before vacation. He methodically removed much of his belongings from his cubical. He did not want to return to this place. His goodbyes were short. He was almost invisible while there, so he would not be missed when he was on vacation. The last person he said goodbye to was the computer programmer that was his new source of problems. He walked up to him and shook his hand. The guy was a bit taken back. He smiled in that sort of fake way, and Eric smiled back suspiciously. And with that, Eric left for his apartment. On the way home, Eric stopped to buy enough food to last a few weeks so he would not have to leave his apartment. He had plans, and he had ideas that needed to be finalized and quickly implemented, all without any interruptions. Eric could not explain to himself how this worked. He needed to experiment to find answers. One bright Sunday morning, he picked Sunday as a day when fewer people were out. He located a tree three blocks away from his apartment. With laser focus, he zeroed in and started to record what was on the monitor. He walked over to the tree and searched for the direction where a camera would be. He found none. He went back to his apartment and reviewed the recording. It was like he stumbled onto a dimensional gap. He could not explain this, nor did he want to. All he knew was that he found it and it was exciting. But he was not done with his experiment. He had the television news on the background during his tests. The story was about weaponizing words, weaponizing race, it seems everything was now weaponized. This gave Eric ideas. An old video game in his closet under a bag of old clothes was a Call to Arms type game. Could it work, would not know until he tried. So, Eric took the video game handgun and wrote code so that this item would be incorporated into his new game. Failure and failure. Maybe Eric had embarked on something that could not be done. He became obsessed with finding a way to connect the video handgun into his new game. Meanwhile, the senior programmer was also filling his mind. This jerk went out of his way to attack Eric. Every day while on vacation, Eric became madder and madder. ‘He will pay,’ thought Eric. Then without knowing, Eric wrote the code needed to include the video handgun into the game. He immediately located his favorite testing tree. He held his breath as it pointed the handgun sights on the monitor towards the tree. When the center of the tree was directly in line, he pulled the trigger once. Looking at the monitor and looking at the tree, he saw a bit of bark fly from the tree. Could it possible. Did he somehow hit the tree? How was that possible? Eric ran, maybe for the first time in his life, to the tree. He observed some pieces of bark missing. He took a felt-tipped marker from his pocket and drew a small three-inch circle about head height on the tree. Back at his apartment, he focused the sights on the center of that circle. He aimed, fired, and bark from within the circle flew off the tree. Not only did this work, but it was the perfect weapon. Basically, from out of nowhere, a pulse of some kind stuck the target leaving zero evidence of what happened or who fired the shot. It was at this time that Eric began to formalize his quest for revenge against those who made fun of him. He felt it was his turn to, as he said, turn the tables. He made a list of those he wanted to seek out and correct their misbehavior towards him. The list grew each day. Being the nerd he was, he began to rank his targets in order of being shot. And always the computer programmer, that jerk at work, held the number one position. But Eric did not want to start at the top. He wanted to work his way up so that when it came to number one, there would be no problems, just results. The day arrived for the first real test. He reviewed his list and decided on a girl that rejected him back in high school. He put her name and home location in the search bar of the program. With a bit of sweat on his brow, he pushed the enter button. Within seconds she was on the monitor. Wow, this was so unreal, but it was real. Eric followed her via the monitor. After about four or five minutes, which seemed more like four or five hours, Eric believed he was ready. He told himself she could have gone out with him. She should have gone out with him. She was now directly in the middle of the sight picture on the monitor. He fired. He watched her fall. There was a puff of smoke, a small ruffle of clothing, and she fell. He just stared at the monitor screen. Soon others were running over to the girl. Eric could not look away. Police, an ambulance, all arrived at her prone body on the ground. Later that night, on the news, there was a report of a young lady found dead. No cause or explanation was given. Eric knew her name before the news reporter spoke it. Weirdly, Eric rejoiced. Part of him was happy, while another part seemed sad. He now had power. This was all new to him. He could not explain how this worked; he just knew it worked. The first thing he did was erase the recording of the practice shot against the tree. He then deleted the recent activity. Just in case he thought. It was getting close to the end of his vacation. He was torn between maybe going back to work or just shooting the computer programmer. He chose shooting the programmer. So began the game of stalking the programmer. Three days until the vacation was over and three days left for the programmer. A day later, it was time. Eric had prepared himself for the greatest revenge ever. He typed the programmer’s name and home location into the game’s search bar. Then, there that jerk was on the monitor. He was less than a mile from Eric’s apartment. The programmer was in his backyard sitting on a lounge chair, enjoying a drink, and some reading material. Eric knew this was the last thing the programmer will ever do. Again, the sweat beaded up in his forehead. He felt a bit nervous, but nothing was going to stop him. Carefully the programmer was positioned within the center of the game’s sights. Eric took a deep, long breathe and fired. Nothing happened. Eric immediately checked the sighting position. It was dead on. He checked the handgun connection; it was solid. Eric fired again. Nothing. Confused, Eric rebooted the computer. It took about three minutes to get back running. He opened the program, and the programmer’s information was already on the screen. When everything was lined up again, he fired, nothing happened. Eric was beside himself. He could not figure out what had happened. Everything was good to go, and nothing was out of order. Maybe the programmer knew about the program and had some shield against Eric’s game was created. Eric’s mind was racing out of control. To make matters even worse, there was a brief power surge. This action was more than Eric could handle. He was storming around the apartment and raced over to the compute programmer’s backyard to see for himself what was wrong. He left the apartment. Meanwhile, a power surge had rebooted the computer again. Eric was, for the second time in his life, actually running. He arrived at the backyard and observed the programmer sleeping. He went up to him ever so slowly and without making a sound. He heard the programmer snoring. Eric stood over the programmer and looked back in the direction he knows the pulses should have come from. He just stood there, adjusted his glasses, and looked back toward that direction. Three pulses struck Eric as the computer had rebooted while he was gone, and for an unknown reason, still was programmed to fire at the location in the search bar. Eric felt the pulses enter his body and, without any other thought or movement, fell back, dead before he hit the ground. Eric was gone, and with him, all the secrets of this game were gone forever.


At the turn of the twenty-second century, many of Earth’s colonies revolted. Within days, enemies of Earth’s mighty empire declared war, hoping to take advantage of the chaos. Forced to fight battles on all fronts, we had been dragged into the center of the third galactic war. After nearly three decades of bloodshed and meaningless carnage, Earth and her allies emerged on top. In the aftermath, countless planets lay destroyed and people all around the universe prayed for peace and prosperity. All the involved parties ceased fire and finally, soldiers could return to their homes. Like many others, General Rayleigh wanted to put all that had happened behind him. He had led many of Earth’s troupes to countless victories and now longed to peacefully settle down and discover his place in the new world. For his service to the Empire, the president awarded him with a hefty pension and a manor on planet Leos, the birthplace of his late mother. He had spent his last twenty years fighting. War was all he knew and all that he was good at. To somebody who’d been in battle his entire adult life, the normal world seemed foreign and empty. Rayleigh, however, was not a man to live life without a purpose. He planned to spend his first month introspecting and thinking about how he wanted his new life to shape up. Leos consisted of many fertile and uncultivated lands. He could spend his money to buy land near his house and become a farmer. Else, he could use it to buy a spaceship and spend his remaining years exploring the galaxies. The possibilities were endless and soon, Rayleigh was overwhelmed with choices. One day, an unusual guest came to visit him. She was an old woman who’d traveled halfway across the galaxy to speak to him. By the time she left his house, Rayleigh had once again found purpose in life. Ellis had been Rayleigh’s closest friend in the war. They originally met each other as recruits in the training camp and later, they’d been assigned to the same battalion. For eight long years, they fought countless battles side by side. On one of their missions, they had been stranded on an inhospitable planet. After roaming the land for many days, they finally came across a crashed and abandoned space ship. Ellis confirmed that he could fix the radio and by help would arrive by the next day. That night, as they waited for rescue, they ate their first meal in days. It was a rotten apple they’d found in the cockpit. It tasted bitter but the two quickly divided it amongst themselves and devoured it within seconds. Later that night, they talked about what all they’d do once the war was over. It had become a tradition for them to do so after every mission. It was one of the few things that kept them going. This time, they talked about opening their own restaurant. They would offer customers the “finest meal they’ll ever have”. Both knew, however, that the end of the war was nowhere in sight. They had even begun to lose hope of ever seeing the planets co-exist peacefully in harmony. Less than a year later, Ellis was gravely injured in combat. He succumbed to his injuries before a medic could get to him. Following that day, Rayleigh started having a regular occurrence of nightmares. Rayleigh’s unexpected visitor was Ellis’s mother. Having lost her only son, she had waited thirteen years for the war to end. When it did, she left to seek out Ellis’s dearest friend and learn about her son’s final moments. The two talked for hours, telling each other stories about the man who had meant so much to them. In the midst of their conversation, Ellis’s mother talked about his lifelong dream to open a restaurant. Rayleigh was taken aback when he heard this. He was reminded about the time they’d talked about doing so together. He’d never realized that his friend genuinely held such a dream. The moment he found out, Rayleigh made up his mind. He would honor his best friend’s memory by accomplishing his lifelong dream. He would open a restaurant and figure out a way to offer its customers the finest meal of their lives. Rayleigh was a smart man. He had ranked first in his military when it came to mental proficiency and was one of the youngest generals in his quadrant’s history. His strategies and tactics had tipped the tide in his side’s favor on many occasions. He realized that although he was no longer a soldier fighting in a war, the mindset and strategies he had developed in wartime would be of use in the business world. Acknowledging that his knowledge regarding the dining industry was scare and lacking, he made a decision to spend the next five years studying the history, science, and psychology of food. He traveled to Earth in an attempt to study its galaxy - renowned cuisines. By his second year, he learned Italian, Indian, Thai, Chinese, Mexican and every other cuisine he had ever read off or seen. At each step, his main focus lay on thinking about how he could use his new knowledge to craft the finest meal a customer could have. He held the belief that successful business was driven by innovation, which came only from technology and research. By the end of the fifth year, Rayleigh had a clear vision of what his restaurant would be and how it would operate. He spent the next three years documenting and refining his plan. By this time, his friends from the war had reached high positions. He proceeded to schedule meetings with investors he’d served with. They invited him to pitch his idea in front of everyone. Within the span of twenty minutes, everyone in the room was floored by Rayleigh’s idea and a huge number of venture capitalists agreed to pour in huge amounts of money for the project. As a year went by, suspense and mystery regarding the restaurant continued to build up. Eleven years after he’d first decided to honor his dearest friend’s legacy, Rayleigh finally declared “Ellis and Rayleigh” open. The tagline read “The finest meal of your life”. He had carefully selected and invited various food critiques and journalists who were now lined up outside. Sharp at twelve, the doors opened for the very first wave of customers. Standing on top of the tallest tower in the city, the view from Ellis and Rayleigh was impeccable and it’s interior was impressive. Rayleigh stood proud in the center, waiting for everyone to head to their assigned seats. None of the tables had any menus or cutleries. Instead, in front of each person, there lay a sleek rectangular slab of glass. Transparent with a light shade of blue. Many brought up it’s resemblance to a smartphone. When everyone had finally been seated, Rayleigh spoke “Thank you all for coming. Initially, the plan was to start with a huge ceremony. However, we collectively decided that it would best if instead, we cut right down to the chase and begin the demonstration. I request all of you to pick up the rectangular slab you see on your table.” Puzzled, everyone did as he asked. “Now hold it front and place your tongue on it, as if you’re licking it” The entire restaurant erupted with laughter. General Rayleigh had to be joking. He couldn't possibly be serious, they spoke amongst each other. Rayleigh joined in with a friendly laugh. After everyone calmed down, he proceeded to demonstrate. Holding up one of the slabs that he’d been keeping in his pocket, he proceeded to open his mouth and place his tongue on it. After a few seconds, the device beeped and turned to a light shade of green. On the slab, there was now a digital timer. It had been set to nine minutes and instantly started counting downwards. Curious, everybody around the room proceeded to imitate what Rayleigh had just done. Slowly, slabs all around turned green and multiple counters started. Some started from as few as five minutes and some even started all the way from twenty-five. This time, when Rayleigh spoke, all eyes were on him. “When the timer ends, it means that your meal has been prepared. One of our waiters will bring the dish to you. Your dish will initially be covered with a lid. We request all of you to not open the lid until everybody else has also been served” Everyone waited. When the final dish had been served, Rayleigh finally asked them to open their lids and have a look at their food. The entire room gave out a collective gasp. On each plate, they lay a different dish. Some people had been served pizza, some others had gotten noodles and rice. Countless dishes spanning a huge variety of cuisine could be found in the room. Even people who were served the same dish noticed huge variations in ingredients and flavors. Few of the meals were even accompanied by a custom made dessert or drink. “Using state of the art technology, our research team has devised a way to analyze your tastebuds and monitor their interactions with your brain. Using this rectangular device, we determine the dish you’re most likely to prefer. Once determined, our team of versatile chefs begins making your favorite dish, ensuring that it’s cooked and made it in the manner you’d enjoy the most.” The demonstration left the crowd wild. Most of the attendees were still shocked from having seen their personal favorite dishes suddenly appear in front of them. Business analysts unanimously predicted that this new restaurant would revolutionize the entire food industry and go on to become massively profitable and successful. They turned out to be right. When the first word of “Ellis and Rayleigh” got out, residents from all over the galaxy rushed to experience the finest meal they’d ever have. Within weeks of the opening, the restaurant became one of the hottest places to dine at in the galaxy. Within a year, reservations were required to be made weeks, if not months in advance. After a hugely successful IPO, Rayleigh began work to set up branches throughout the universe. By the time he turned ninety, Ellis and Rayleigh had turned into one of the most profitable organizations of the century. Rayleigh retired soon after, passing on his responsibility and leaving the company in the hands of a trusted board of directors. A few years later, he was invited as the guest of honor for one of the company’s press conference. The research department had been working very hard and it was finally time to announce their latest innovation. The new restaurants would now do more than just analyze one’s tastebuds to create meals. They would also factor in the customer’s DNA and brain activity. This would allow the company to factor in dietary restrictions for certain meals and even recreate items from the customer’s memory. The crowds cheered as General Rayleigh walked to the stage, soon to become the first person to try out Ellis and Rayleigh’s revamped technology. As he had done so many years ago, Rayleigh picked up the slab and placed his tongue on it. He then proceeded to let the device scan his brain and collect a sample of his DNA. When he was done, the timer displayed a waiting time of just three minutes. Soon, his food arrived. Rayleigh lifted the lid for everyone to see. On the plate, lay nothing but a crudely cut piece of a rotten apple. Everybody in the crowd looked puzzled. A voice shouted from the back of the crowd. “Does it not work?”, it asked. “Quite the contrary” replied Rayleigh. Wiping off a tear that just formed in his eye, he proceeded to eat, truly the finest meal he would ever have in his life.


He blinked his eyes hard. Opened them. He saw everything in shades of purple, the way the world looks when the sun is too bright. It was too hot, too; he could tell from the way the people under the awnings shifted and fanned themselves. But all he felt was cold. The sweat seemed to freeze on his skin. The dust felt cool under his feet. Bare feet. He looked like a fool, standing there. That sumbitch had taken everything. Even his boots. The sumbitch had been done gambling, he said when he called that morning. What he meant is he’d been done playing at cards. He looked around. Everyone looked fit to catch flies, with their mouths open like that. Jenny from the saloon’s was shut, and her eyes were welling up with tears. She turned away and hid her face in her hands. Damned fool woman. He was faster than the sumbitch, and better than him too. She ought to know better. He grinned, and looked the sumbitch straight in the eyes. Through the smoke, he saw the smirk twisting his enemy’s face. His mouth formed a word. “Draw” is what he meant to say, but he choked on something. He coughed and wiped his mouth. The back of his suntanned wrist came away red. He felt a thump against his leg, and looked down to see his revolver fall from his grasp. He frowned at his nipples. He seemed to have an extra, just above and to the middle... His chest snapped into focus, and he saw the ruined flesh just above his breastbone. He looked up, the movement heavy with effort. The sumbitch was grinning now, a grotesque expression marred by a twisting scar. “I done told you last night, boy,” the sumbitch said as he raised his gun. “I always win.” In the stables, a horse reared. As the echoes died away, all that could be heard was the sound of a woman sobbing.


Jerry’s days were monotonous. Every day, every night, the same cycle. He thought this was what he wanted, after all this was the American dream right? He had graduated college, gotten a job at a law firm, and started a family. Although he loved his family something didn't seem right. Every morning his wife greeted him in the same way. “Hey honey, how'd you sleep?" his wife would ask. His two kids would exclaim, “Good morning Daddy!” in unison. Always this, nothing more nothing less. After, he would make 2 scrambled eggs, bacon, and some coffee. Then it was time to head to work. On his way to work, he would always be stopped at the same red light and a black Toyota Camry would give one senseless honk at him. When he got out of his car at the parking lot, a black lab on the sidewalk would bark three times. Once in his job, a man named Lorenzo would walk into his office exactly five minutes into his shift with a question about a civil dispute. Throughout the day the same clients he'd seen time and time again would stumble in. After 12 hours of this, he would go home. “Welcome, home Daddy,” his two kids would say in unison once again. After having meatloaf and potatoes for dinner with a glass of cheap wine, he’d head to the living room to watch T.V. As always, the Buccaneers were playing the 49ers and when he turned it on the score would be 21-21, 5 minutes into the second half. At exactly 11:30 he would head to bed and immediately fall asleep. The next morning the cycle would repeat. This continued to repeat until one day, an inconsistency happened. A man walked into the law firm Jerry had never seen before sporting a black leather jacket. He asked to speak with Jerry at the front and headed to his office. Without any greeting, the man prompted, “Aren’t you bored yet?”. For a brief moment, Jerry was confused about what he meant by bored, but within a few seconds, something clicked. Although he felt things had been off for a while it was as if a force in the air prevented him from doing anything about it, he was like a salmon flowing down an endless river, he lived an inescapable, monotonous existence. “Haven’t you noticed?" asked the man. "It's all the same Jerry," he said coldly. "Why don’t you go and feel your heartbeat for me,” he coerced with an eerie grin. To Jerry's horror, his heart was as still as a statue and he now noticed his skin was frigid as well. “You see Jerry you're already dead, you've been a corpse for many years now," the man stated dryly. "You’ve been repeating this day endlessly for quite some time, but in case you're wondering this is heaven nor hell, or even purgatory". "No, no, no, my dear friend this isn't a place for the good or bad, but instead for those who waste away their precious life. Those who were too scared to chase their dreams and chose to wallow in a miserable existence instead," stated the man. "You always wanted to be an actor Jerry, that was your only real passion in life, but you were too much of a coward to take the chance, too scared it would go wrong so you worked a job you despised and married a woman you didn't love until you died a lonely death, am I right?" asked the man callously. "However, I have a proposal for you," the man declared and began to smile. "I’ve chosen to give you one more chance. You will relive your life from when you were 18 and will have 10 years to change your fate and pursue your dreams". "If you manage to change, I'll let you live the rest of your life out. However, if you fail again, you won’t be going back to this place, oh no you'll be going someplace far, far worse, I’m sure you can imagine what I’m referring to," the man pressed. "Oh and if you choose not to accept you'll continue this day for all of eternity," he added. "Well, the decision's all yours Jerry, what will it be?" he asked with a nefarious smile. Face to face with the devil, Jerry reached out his hand....


“All is fair in Love and War” I may or may not have several mental issues that originated from my Middle school and High school times of which I am highly ashamed of. I was a very dumb kid, like impressively naive and hopeful. Many of my friends would say they were the same way and that it’s not worth thinking about, but I just can’t stop thinking back on my younger self with nothing but harsh judgement toward him. My first kinda real relationship I had was... not successful to say the least. It was back in Middle school so it was bound to fail, but it’s easy to be blind to imminent failure when your hormones are off the charts and you believe you’re on the brink of striking gold. Her name is Murphy. Murphy was kind of “the hoe of Pendleton”, which is a sad and concerning title to have at 13. I didn’t know that though, and it probably wouldn’t change what I thought about her very much if I did, it’s just food for thought and a little important to mention. Most of that relationship isn’t really worth talking about. We met, she had a crush on me, nobody liked me so knowing someone liked me like that won me over, blah blah blah, dating. You couldn’t even really call it dating though, we never went out together other than to smoke weed. No parks, or dinners together, we just ate frozen food, junk food, laid around in my room smoking weed and constantly having sex. After 2 months of “dating” she told me she had cheated on me but it was when she was drunk and that she loves me. I kind of shoulda seen that coming because she cheated on a different guy to get with me, but I was also 13 and very romantically influenced by whatever dumb HollyWood movies I was watching at the time, so it felt like we were vigilantes of romance, or at least I felt like a vigilante. Instead of breaking off the relationship after that violation of trust, I believed she still loved me and shrugged off the emotional damage that caused. She proceeded to cheat on me two more times in our one year relationship, one of those times being with my bestfriend at the time. After that bad experience dating and smoking a brain damaging amount of weed during that, I found myself paranoid and untrusting of everyone unless given an unhealthy amount of reassurance. I still need it to this day, less now than before, but I still find myself uncomfortable even in rock solid relationships if I’m not given a weird amount of reassurance. I’m not very bothered by that though, what I’m more bothered about is the ending of that relationship. Toward the end she told me for the third time that she had cheated on me again and that she was sorry. I was seething with a full range of negative feelings, some really vile, toxic shit, but instead of breaking up with her and distancing myself from that mess, I told her it was fine. The very next day I cheated on her, then a week later I broke up with her after I told her what I did in the most unapologetic way possible. The first and only time I really took pride in being an asshole. I turned into the thing I hated most, something that to me was unredeemable in any scenario, I had done out of spite. Some hear it and say “All is fair in Love and War” then tell me what I did was bad but justifiable, but to me there is no justifying that. She didn’t sink me down to her level, I got there all by myself, she just showed me how easy it is to fight fire with fire. That’s Pendleton for ya though. Everyone wants to leave this place and it’s obvious why. Pendleton is just a sad hole in the ground that turns everyone rotten, maybe not as rotten as Murphy, or maybe more. You can’t really predict how negatively this place will affect someone, all you can really know is that this place is cursed, and just being here for even a moment will guarantee that you lose a bit of your niceness. Or if you don’t have any of that, you’ll just become like the main majority of Pendleton. Mad, untrusting, and mentally feral. This is the first thing I’ve written in a while so it’s not very great, but I’m proud of it. I’ve used a fake name to protect the person I wrote about, but they know who they are.


My name is Teresa, I’m sixteen and Halloween is by far my favorite time of the year but it also has some anxiety for me. You see my specialty is creating the costume, no sexy kitty for me it has to have references and it has to show skill. I’ve done the werewolf, I’ve done the vampire, I’ve done so many things it’s getting hard to think of what to do next. After much deliberation I’ve settled on the ghost this year. I keep quiet about this choice, not even telling best friend Jess. She and I go to the same high school and much as I love her, this is the one area where the two of us compete. Instead I secretly begin to collect and hoard what I’ll need to make the costume. I watch videos about how to make fake blood, I consider who I was before I met with my terrible fate, I settle for cheer leader hoping to be funny as well as scary. You may be wondering why so much effort for one night of the year. Well we live in a rural mountainous area called the Catskills and there’s not much going on out here. Jess and I live on neighboring properties. There’s a road that runs past both of them but it’s not the shortest way to get to each other’s houses. The quickest way is over the fields and through a small forest called Winkle Wood. My mother doesn’t want me doing this but once I’m out of sight she can’t exactly stop me. This Halloween the plan is to meet Jess at her house and her mother will drive us both into town. Getting ready requires some time, I powder my skin white and draw dark circles under my eyes. I desecrate a cheerleader outfit I found at the local goodwill with fake blood. My mother comes and leans against the bathroom door eyeing my efforts. “I was a cheerleader you know.” “I know,” I say grinning widely She sighs, “I don’t know why you are drawn to such gruesome ideas” “Oh come on Mom, it’s Halloween!” “Yes, well go and have fun, make sure you take the road to Jess’s house.” “Sure will” She leaves me too it and I pack my phone and other necessaries into a small back pack and head out. I do walk towards the road at first but then as usual I veer off and head towards the woods. It’s quite beautiful out in the fields, the stars are shining above me and fireflies are skipping through the grass. Inside the woods it’s a bit spookier, the trees loom large, their branches blocking out the light. I hear the hoot of an owl and the crack of a branch under foot. I sing to myself determined not to let the creepiness take over. To be honest It’s more usual to come this way by daylight but I know this forest like the back of my hand. Or at least I think I do. It seems to be taking longer than I expected to get to Jess’s house. Old stories begin to rise up in my mind, Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, but there are no wolves or witches out here unless they are children in their Halloween gear. I try to laugh at my imagination but it comes out sounding hollow. I pause to lean against a tree and catch my breath and find my bearings. I can just see the moon angling through the trees, it’s still close to the horizon and I begin to feel sure of where I am again. I set off with more confidence and much to my relief find myself coming out near Jess’s house. I wonder what costume she will have cooked up this year. There are lights on inside and I can hear voices on the night air. Silently as the ghost I’m pretending to be I slip around the side of the house and come up the front path just as if I had walked in off the road. Confidently I ring the door bell and wait on the front page. “Hey Jess” I say as the door swings open but the words die on my lips. Because it’s not Jess or Jess’s mother or anyone in her family, it’s just an older lady who looks a little puzzled. “Who?” “Jess, This is her house!” “I’m sorry dear I and my husband Tom have been here for ten years and there’s no one of that name here.” I’m feeling desperate now, “no one here, not ever?” “Well there was a family here ten years ago but they moved away, sad circumstance the daughter lost one her friends, she just disappeared and then the whole family decided it wasn’t safe here anymore.” I’m shaking like a leaf and if I didn’t have the make up on I would be white as a ghost. “Do you want to come in?” asks the woman doubtfully.” “No.” I turn and run back the way I’ve come. Something tells me I can’t go by the road not if I’m to find my way back. Instead I plunge back into the forest not caring what branches scratch at me or what vegetation catches at my feet. I run as if my life depends on it, I have the strongest feeling that it does. This time the trip through the wood is as quick as I expected it to be, it seems my sense of direction works better when driven by pure instinct. I run out the other side and into the fields around my house. I run up to my house praying that it is my house. As I approach I slow down thinking about what story I could possibly tell my mother about why I’m back so soon. I pause outside the door panting a little and then raise my hand to ring the bell. The door swings open and there stands a man I’ve never met before. I am about to dissolve into tears when my mother appears behind him. “Tess? What are you doing back?” The story bubbles out of me between messy sobs. My mother listen’s gravely, “Tess, I’ve always told you never to go by the woods.” “But why mom, what happened?” “I can’t say for sure but the legend has it that those are the woods Rip Van Winkle fell asleep in all those years ago.” I stare at her mouth agape and then I begin to frown. “Mom, who’s this?” The stranger extends a hand, “Tom the name’s Tom, I got a little lost, it seems to be ten years before the time I left home.”


“Today’s the day I change. No, really, this time I mean it.” It was the best lie I’d ever told myself while being ushered out of our gate with 7,000 other males. We bundled up our 1 pair of clothes on our shoulders along with our pride. Our shoes were stripped away as well as our Manma’s fingers, gripping our brown collards... Would it be considered real change if we knew it was coming from day 1? In Boarding we were told the definition was “the act or instance of making or becoming different.” I guess that’s what I wanted... I wanted something different. Flies littered the air as the sun slowly faded behind the cracked buildings. A frigid wind slapped at our dark brown jumpsuits as we relentlessly walked forward, not knowing why, and not able to stop. In the early days we were plucked out because of the inevitable tendons snapping due to no stretching, or frostbitten toes back in the Hinge Valley. Miserable was an understatement when describing the trial we had been trained for since babes. “Listen, if we all decided to run how could they stop us?” Krane smugly asked, leaning himself against a younger boy behind him. “Because it’s never worked before.” Nearus softly said, shaking his rusty locks angrily. “We don’t know that for sure...” Stated my best friend, and leader of our dingy group, Lorel. “Yeah, s’pose you’re right, Lorel. S’pose that’s why none of our dad’s ever came back, no, NONE of the men ever come back. It’s because we don’t know nothin, and those masked fleas don’t say nothin.” Hefting his tall frame up quickly, Nearus turned angrily making his dramatic exit while wading through and stepping squarely on a mass of now angry awake boys. “He’s right ya know. We know nothin.” I exclaimed softly, already seeing the looks on my friend’s faces in my mind. Krane would roll his eyes, Lorel would drop his head in thought, hoping that a new plan would be better than the one before. Drinch inevitably had checked out due to our lack of sign language, and Fallow.. Well Fallow was probably sleeping at this point. “I can’t take that answer forever, Marr.” Lorel’s grey eyes searched my face as I looked up to him. “We have to try something, do anything and... and...” “And not die before tomorrow.” finished Fallow, who was surprisingly not sleeping. DAY 225 Dawnbreak today. Eyes meeting eyes as we finally let our bare, completely calloused feet find a stopping point. Splitting us up into groups of 8, The Grimms, or as we fondly called them, Fleas would lead us into the scrap of a tent on the edge of New Camp which was made every 5 days, and fed us. By day 20 Lorel realized that the groups picked to eat first were always at the back of the caravan VS the front... “It’s a sick game. Those at the back are the weaker... They’re a few hours away from collapsing and being plucked. They’re fed so they can go longer and the Fleas can watch us suffer more.” It’s hard to forget seeing a forgotten language for the first time... Fingers gracefully carving out words from the air around him, Lorel vented to his doormate, Drinch. My wide eyes gave away my surprise as Drinch looked over Lorel’s slight shoulders and pointed a dark finger at me. Since that moment I’ve known that I was following closely behind the winner of this... If there was a winner at all. Whatever this was. Questions whispered during the freezing nights were more numerous than the stars at this point. Death was our greatest fear, and on hour 22 of day 4 before Dawnbreaks, it was secretly our deepest hope. DAY 258 “JUST SAY SOMETHING!!!” Feeling every vertebrae straighten click by click isn’t something I ever thought would remind me of my humanity. Remind me that I was still a person. Speaking was forbidden until the cloak of night when The Flea’s couldn’t decipher who had spoken, or really just didn’t care anymore, and on Daybreak days. Though our sense of hours had faded away, the count of days was the only thing that left us feeling normal... Today was not a day we could use our vocal chords. Flashing forward Krane tackled Nearus to the dusty ground, and in an instant a lone hushed whisper commanded “Close in.” This was new, exhilarating territory. By closing the gap around the deviant yeller, we ourselves were choosing to die, choosing to disobey... Choosing to change. As if a conductor had lifted his wand, the symphony of us boys flowed together and closer to Krane who was shaking Nearus out of his death wish. But with the symphony there’s always the clashing cymbals to awaken the audience from their daze... Black helmets moved forward quickly, and expertly though to everyone’s notice not as effortlessly as usual. “Don’t. Stop.” This time the whisper was directly beside me. Lorel... The winner. If one could watch prayers and pleads fly into the sky, there would’ve been millions as we directly went against everything taught to us in Boarding. Rule 12.5 When in Wander Way there is no need to speak nor will it be permitted. Rule 15.8 When The Grimms move in to give correction, move away immediately. Move away immediately.... Move... Immediately... Shick. Shick this. Manma wasn’t tolerant of much, but luckily for her, she had a son who never disobeyed. This was how I would excel, she always said as she fussed over a stew. Excelling is the last thing coming to mind... move your feet. Move your feet. “Move your feet, Marr.” The hushed command startled my dark eyes upward again, and the realization hit that I had stopped moving. This was the only rule you didn’t break, and without realizing it, I had disobeyed in the biggest way. Panic flashed through me and my legs moved before my brain had time to give the command. Holding back a strangled sob, waiting to be Plucked, my eyes scanned around me. Grimms were being knocked around by incoherent, terrified boys as they were still trying to locate the vocal criminal. Safe. I was okay. DAY 305 “Next time you decide to be an absolute shickhead I won’t be there, got it?” Krane fumed, long dark hair plastered against his sweat soaked forehead. “What were you trying to accomplish, Neaurus? ” Drinch’s fingers danced through the air jerkingly, expressing his annoyance. “I’m sorry, okay?! I was just...” “Just trying to get half of this group killed, that’s what. Like yelling would’ve done anything.” Krane interrupted, leaning forward on his knees, staring daggers into Nearus. “At least I finally said something. Anything. Our motto is about doing something, right? RIGHT?” Krane slapped his hand over Nearus’s mouth, causing a brief struggle that eventually faded into sobs. There was no fault in his speech... Was our group motto just a hopeful quote that would fade into nothing? Like us? “You’re right. If we’re to have a motto, we’re to live by it. Today was a small glance in the right direction... A brief glimmer of warmth in our winter. There has to be change.” Sorel’s eyes closed in thought, and no one dared even breathe for fear that our only chance would blink out with the shifting of a boot. But how does one person change an entire way of life? Sorel was smart, really he was the only option of hope at this point, but was there really an escape? Without even knowing why we were marching, or why we had been trained for this... Was there even an end? DAY 333 Lorel’s plan was basically foolproof, except that we were all too cowardly to go through with it, minus Searus who was always up for anything rebellious these days. His words were on repeat like the old tune on Manma’s receiver, “Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away...” Changing the words from “fly” to “die” hadn’t helped my nerves, but it was better than the alternative. Giving stock to Lorel’s plan would secure our death, along with the 41 others who’d died in the last 28 days... yet there it was, replaying again. Stupid plan. Stupid song. Stupid Frank Sinater, or whatever Manma said his name was. Loathing had begun to stretch across my skinnier, paler demeanor... 333 days. 66 meals. Out of 7,000 males there were now 82, soon to be 81 by the looks of Juno stumbling in the back, face paler than my own. “There has to be change.” The sure, strong, annoyingly calm voice of Lorel rang through my dehydrated mind. I went into this believing exactly that... But change wouldn’t come from ME. Staying neutral while others did the change making was my game... so why wasn’t that working? The world around me swirled and slowed the moment I heard “It’s now or never.” resound from Lorel’s small mouth. “No, wait. We can’t - “ My excuse was cut off with another sound from the mass. A low whistle shot through the air, clear and loud against the silence. Out of the corner of my eye, Krane’s body stiffened to a halt, fear lacing his veins. Neaurus oddly was out of sight, but with our eyes always pointed forward, taking the chance of turning around was deadly. The tune continued without end it seemed, until a new harmony joined. A voice from the midst. .....my voice... “Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away...” The world had swallowed time in this moment. Escaping on the cusp of hope was impossible, so becoming change was the only option here. A smarter move on our chessboard of death. Grimms filtered into the mass of boys, their direction pointed at us and their mission apparent, when to my right I got the answer to where Nearus had been before. Perched on his shoulders Drinch signed intently, his lip quivering in fear while his golden eyes shined brighter than ever. “Don’t. Stop. Morr. Keep. Going.” Small hand signals fed into my courage as I looped the song again, smiling up at Drinch as I waited for a Grimm to end me. From the ashes of silence birthed a new change... Humming that started softly crescendoed quickly into a chant of change. “FLY. FLY. LETS FLY AWAY. FLY. FLY. LETS FLY AWAY” And then it stopped. We all stopped. Stopping was forbidden, but here it was creeping down our legs, the solid release of tension and tendons. Eyes meeting eyes, blinking away tears, trying to grasp onto an understanding of where we were... why it was so bright when just a moment ago we were at NightFell. “It wasn’t real... It wasn’t real... Fake. We are fake.” Lorel repeated this line over and over again for weeks as we were all taken to our new placement, he rocked back and forth in the “lab” as the Grimms... er... Scientists had called our new habitat. “They are a new breed of human, able to withstand all weather, survive off little to no sustenance, and the more and more they breed the less and less emotion passes down. A wonderful unit for any up and coming H. O. M. E. system.” A Gri- Scientist boasted to a dark suited woman, looking down at us with a countenance similar to Krane’s. Irritating. After weeks I still wasn’t sure what it stood for, but what it was... well it wasn’t good. We were scum, essentially. To be used, abused and tossed whenever the Fancies deemed us unusable, I guess. Lorel, in his psychosis, hadn't been wrong. It was all fake. A test to see what new breeding update had proquired for them... what new model we were. Everyday, 4 or 5 of us were taken upon request of the Fancies upstairs. Krane had been one of the first to go, walking away smugly until he got to Nearus. Shoulders dropping, I caught their hands slip together one last time. Nearus left 3 days later along with Lorel and Fallow. The trio turned before reaching the darkened exit, catching mine and Finch’s eyes, only nodding. Alarms raped the air angrily, causing us all to bow our heads in solemn understanding that it was yet another day of choosing and leaving. Gloved hands firmly gripped my shoulders, marking me one of the chosen today. Turning my body towards my last friend, I stumbled, seeing the tears race down Drinch’s face. “Thank You. For. Changing. Me. Morr” was the deafening scream of silent words carved from air.


I saw her again last night. Her visits have gotten more and more infrequent as time passes. Before this past night it had been 6 days, 13 hours, and 42 minutes since our last encounter. I was drunk. I spend most of my time in an alcohol-induced stupor these days. A fist smashed my door several times, yanking me from my whiskey nirvana. After a brief but brutal fight with gravity and the floor, I managed to navigate my way to the knocking sound. But I was cautious. It could have been another one of my "friends" claiming they were there to help me. I'm too smart for them. All they want to do is strip away my life-preserving elixir, the one thing getting me through every morning and every night. My mud brown orbs peep through the eye-hole and meet a pair of Caribbean blue eyes. Her eyes. It's hard for me to recollect what happened next but I remember flinging open the door with such force it's a mystery the hinges didn't come undone. Then she's in my arms, bringing me warmth greater than Hell but everything in this moment is so perfect that I know we must be in a place even higher than Heaven. Strawberries. That's what her hair smells like. I had almost forgotten. Immediately I curse my memory and fight back tears of frustration. But before I have the chance to cry, she leans in and whispers, "I miss you, darling" and I melt into a sweet, steaming pile of yearning. Our eyes meld into a navy black mess. I hate my own eyes for dirtying the beauty of this union. That old, tangled knot in my chest returns. It slowly expands and I know it's going to explode soon so I go for the only cure I know. My lips seek the warmth of her lips. Instead they meet a finger, stiff and icy. She shakes her head, wearing the same kind of smile a mother does when her three year old son asks for the meaning behind "you'll be a big brother soon". The rest of the night was a blur of love. Hours dripped into hours. At some point the alcohol and strawberries took their toll. She didn't visit my dreams that night and when I awoke to the light of the morning she was gone. The knot in my chest unwound and sunk back into its bottomless void. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and stared out at the blindingly bright sun. Though it stung, it helped bring back a bit of glowing comfort. I finished my drink and grabbed my car keys. For once I actually had a destination in mind. The drive was uneventful. The sun hid behind a shield of clouds and did not return for the rest of the day. On the way there I stopped at a farmer's market and picked up a bouquet of forget-me-nots. They had been her favorite flowers. I placed the forget-me-nots on the cold stone and stared at nothing for three hours in somber silence. Then I drove home, opened a new bottle of Jack Daniels, and drank myself into another coma. As I drifted into death I promised to spend tomorrow the same way. And the day after that. And the day after that. And that was how my life would be spent from now. I don't need anything or anyone other than my alcohol and the occasional visit from her. Maybe if I take one more shot than I did the night before I can see her again. And maybe next time she won't leave once the sun rises. And maybe we'll be together forever, like those two stupidly innocent children promised each other underneath the thousand year old oak tree in that field of gold forever ago. Maybe.


Manuscripts are from the devil, I’d been told, but I felt it too, evil emanating out like heat from a fire. I wrapped it in cloth to be safe, tucked it in my satchel, and now I wait. I had a few hours, enough time I’m sure before my Master discovered my absence, and my theft. I drank my beer down to forget the past, to focus on my future, my hope brightening the walls of the dark Public House. My eyes followed Evelyn as she moved around me, cleaning up from the night before. Her dark hair pulled back tight showed her pale beauty, and even the dull woolen uniform couldn’t diminish her lithe figure. I lifted my head in an attempt to catch her eye, but no, that candle had guttered out, only the smoke of my longing left. When she first came to town she spoke to me, asked about my work and my Master, but her attention had drifted when I said no. Now I was no more than another chair in her way, an obstacle to sweep around. I did this for you Evelyn, and you won't even look at me? On my own, I see. So be it. Pulling out the cloth wrapped bundle from my satchel I carefully placed it on the table. If what Evelyn said was true, this strange item could allow me to finally escape my service, with enough gold to make a new life, free from my bonds. I stared at it, hesitant to touch the elaborate box. Just parchment squeezed tight between wooden boards, how could it hurt me? I had seen it before on my Master’s shelf, next to an old statue, but gave it no more thought than the worn boots below it. I have no need of such things as paper or written symbols, my only use is for work. Evelyn said a man, Daemon, had come from Rome searching for these old manuscripts, such as one rumored to be held by my own Master. No larger than my two hands together, this small item could be my salvation. The cover creaked open, dust puffed into the air, as if breathing again after ages of suffocation. First one page, then the next blank. My heart leapt into my throat, could some magic be needed to make the words appear? But then on the third sheet, an image appeared, a man so bright and real, I touched the page to see if he lived. I understood why Daemon wanted this, needed it enough to pay gold for it. The man, his hands raised with blood on his palms, a cut in his ribs, stared at me, a gold circle around his head, a gold cloak over his body. Was this the man whose soul had been caught? Half the page and and the next were filled with black marks in dense flowing lines. They seemed to move as I looked over them, as if these lines were fighting to be released from the page. A black dread flowed down my back. Have I released some demon by opening his cage? My blunt and scarred fingers moved along each, following these strange markings. A hand on my shoulder. “You did it.” I turned to see Evelyn behind me. "I hoped you wouldn't-" “What?” My confusion intensified when she looked down into my eyes, deep pools of sadness. “If this goes well, I ‘ll have gold-” My lips quivered, matching the tremor of my heart. “We can leave together-” “Poor boy.” Her hand touched my face, the blaze in her eyes lit a fire in me, illuminating a future better than I could dream. “I wish it could be so-” Her eyes closed. “Yes, if-” “After, meet me outside-” I grabbed her hand, kissed her fingers. “We’ll leave this town, together, and - live free!” Evelyn bent down, her lips met mine, just an instant, her warm touch an eternity of bliss, sparking lighting through to my toes, then she looked up at a sound, and stepped away. The door stuttered open and a man spilled in with the morning light. I felt Daemon before I could see his face, a cold frost flowing into the room. A narrow stick of a man, his over- large head bobbed on a narrow neck, hair fine, matted to his temples, with a few strips reaching down his jaw. He clutched his cloak to his chest with thin arms, like crooked branches. Glasses perched at the end of his long pointed nose, a sparrow hanging on for dear life. He moved without effort, as if he floated instead of walked. Daemon nodded to Evelyn, waved toward her with two fingers. Dark, cold spots of light peered out under heavy brows. Eyes like a wild beast with no soul, and I feared him like no other man I had ever met. He smelled of mold and dust, an odor of death that sent the hair on my neck lurching from my body to escape. Long, thin fingers danced on the table, blackened nails clicking against the wood. I had heard of these Scribes, men who trapped words on a page, with strange magic and a feather. What mysticism did they practice, what knowledge did they deal in beyond my ken? I eyed him warily, that knowledge stuffed too tight, a too full sack, could explode, destroying him and anyone around him. “Do’ya have the gold?” I whispered, keeping my head low A cough, dry and hoarse escaped his lips, like a death rattle. I feared for his health, but at his crooked grin, I recognized it as his laugh. Evelyn brought two ceramic cups of black beer, along with a metal platter laden with apples, dried meat and cheeses. Daemon’s hand brushed her leg, up to her hip, lingering. I didn’t understand how she could stand the touch, but her body stayed still, though her eyes looked away. “Si. I have the monete .” Daemon’s face fell into a sneer. His words had a strange, foreign lilt that grated on my ears. A cloth bag landed with a heavy clink on the table, the sound of my future. Evelyn had spoken the truth! I suddenly saw our life together, our horses in the green pasture, prancing in front of golden fields of wheat. Evelyn stood at my side, holding a draught of beer for me, and my pipe. Our young children laughing around us, I tried to count their little heads, were there eight or ten? “You have il manoscritto ?” Daemon interrupted. I looked around the empty room, before I placed the bundle on the table. I felt lighter having passed it on. His hands paused in midair when the cloth fell away. The old man breathed in, his eyes bright, his back straightening up. His mouth dropped open in pure desire. Daemon moved to open the cover. I grabbed his wrist, felt his bones in my hand, his skin cold as ice. Alive though, his pulse beat thin and fast. “Be careful, the man he's awake-” “ Questo è il mio lavoro. ” Daemon’s spoke, low and dry as a desert wind. “This is my life’s work” I knew enough to know that these lines signified words, somehow. The Man in Gold’s voice trapped on this parchment. I sunk down further in my chair, weighed down by the pain of slavery. I knew what it meant to be under lock and key, allowed to be free only on the whim of my master. Daemon meant to keep these words locked away, to add to his collection of souls. Better them than me. “Mio Dio, Il Horae.” He said. “The Book of Hours. The rumors spoke true, we thought lost-” “Is it what you’re looking for?” I focused on reading Daemon's blank face. He didn’t answer but continued to lift page after page, each turn showing the same, more and more black snakes, squirming under my eyes. I had no idea what thoughts these little lines captured, but I didn’t want to understand. I felt the beer roil in my stomach, threatening to come back up. The Man of Gold had been trapped onto these papers, imprisoned forever, with this foreigner to be the jailer. "Pay me or I' ll burn the vile thing-" Daemon’s knife flashed, a blur of steel, and then a sharp line of heat at my neck, Daemon held me, with death at my throat. "I'll take this as a gift. Or will you trade with your blood?" A swipe of his wrist and I would leave this life, damned to hell for eternity. I should have read the signs, they were as clear as day, the offer too good to be true. I’d been betrayed. Slam! The door flew open and my Master stood in the door, his stance unmistakable, his rage shaking him and the sword dancing in his hand. “Boy!” My Master shouted. “How could you betray me, steal from me!” The blade lowered, pointing in accusation at me. " Cos'è questo! " Daemon shouted to my Master. "I didn't know he stole. He will be punished.” I thought of Evelyn, our life together. I couldn’t go out like this. “Please, no! Help me-" Suddenly the manuscript moved, falling to the floor, catching Daemon’s attention, loosening his grip. I’ll never know if it was a quirk of fate, or if the Man in Gold chose to help me, but I took the chance and grabbed the knife by the blade to pull it from my neck. I escaped his grasp, though my palms were sliced to shreds. I turned to see Eve wielding the platter like a hammer, swinging again and again at Daemon. With Evelyn at my side I could make an escape! Scooping up the manuscript, I grabbed an iron poker from the fire and ran at my Master, standing in front of the only portal to my future. I had lived more of life in these few short hours than in all of my 20 years. I kissed a girl, escaped death, and now carry a priceless treasure in my hand. The stars were aligned with me today, I could not lose! Anger at all the scars, all the pain this man caused powered my arm, I swung my war axe for a killing blow to his head. My master took a simple step, dodged my weapon and I felt his blade in my side. I’m invincible!” I screamed as I fell out the front door, the manuscript tumbling from my hand. If only I could find my love, Evelyn, then we can meet our future together. I looked at my hands, covered in blood, my life pouring out of my side. As I fell, a flash of recognition, the Man in Gold- I opened my eyes to see Evelyn above me, her face more beautiful than anything I deserve. “Is this heaven?” “No, not yet.” she said. “Soon enough.” She picked up the manuscript from the ground. “That,” I gestured to it, “the Man in Gold, he needs to be set free-” I said, out of breath. “That devil will take him-“ “Men are the devil, I learned that where I was raised in the monastery, as a servant, and then-” Her jaw clenched. “A Brother taught me my letters, now I work for Daemon. My world is small, and hard. But when I open this, read these words, I release the Spirit, and I escape this life, even if only for a few moments. Do you believe?” “He saved me-“ I closed my eyes. I saw the horses in the green pasture, golden fields of wheat. The Man in Gold stood with me, as Evelyn read to us, her words flowing on a breeze. I am finally free. “When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears, and rescues them from all their troubles.”


The elegant black hearse pulled slowly away from 53 Bellamy Street, leading the cortege comprised of just it and one other car. Hetty’s ecofriendly, bamboo coffin, covered with garlands of cornflowers, irises and buddleia in beautiful hues ranging from sky to midnight, could be seen from the back of the second vehicle. “Do you think we’re doing this right?” Stella gently placed one hand on the shoulder of her daughter’s smart, black suit and the other on the cream leather of the seat. “I don’t know Mum, but it’s the best we could manage,” said Claire. “We don’t know much about Hetty. Not much that’s true anyway. Apart from her wonderful clothes.” “I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but she did tell some tales!” Stella stifled a giggle. “You’re right about her dress sense though, those periwinkle stilettoes were something, and the suede cobalt slip-ons. She had a silk scarf to match every outfit as well.” “Tales is the word! Remember when she said she’d been in the service of the Dutch Royal Family? The Royal House of the Netherlands, she used to say.” “Ironic that they had a Princess of Orange when Hetty always wore blue.” Stella played down her grin by gazing out of the car window and focussing on the houses they were passing. "I'll never forget that peacock jacket of hers, iridescent like real feathers, absolutely stunning." “I still don’t understand why she chose us to oversee all of this.” Claire fiddled with the St. Christopher that sat just above the open top button of her grey blouse. “But then I suppose she didn’t have anyone else.” “No, she didn’t even talk to anyone on the street, apart from us. I did knock on all the doors you know, to give them the details, but I don’t think anyone'll be there.” Stella ran a finger along the square neckline of her black shift dress and straightened her pearls. “I suspect most of them just didn't take to her tall tales.” “Mum, do you remember when Hetty said she once won a wildlife photography competition at the Grand Canyon? She said she hid in a bush waiting for porcupines, but skunks came instead and she only managed to snap a picture of them spraying directly at her!” Claire sniggered. “Oh yes! She said she stank for days and spent the prize money on scented soap and new clothes!” Stella pinched her nose with two fingers and raised her eyebrows before letting out a loud guffaw. “Mum!” Claire shot a glance towards the back of the driver’s head, his neatly cut hair mostly hidden under a black top hat. “A little decorum!” But she was giggling, too. “Must be hard to disguise yourself in the desert when you’re clothed from head to foot in sapphire and navy. Sorry. Not sorry.” The two women covered their mouths with their hands, and each stared out of their own window until they had regained some composure. They were reaching the edge of town, and things were looking a little more rural. “Anyway,” said Stella, “one of us is going to have to give a eulogy and we still don’t have any idea where to start. What can we honestly say about the old dear?” “Well, we can say that she always wore blue,” said Claire. “We know that much is true. And that she was very generous. She’s left us practically everything she owned, I still can’t quite get over that. Who leaves almost their entire estate to people they've only known six months?” “She was very kind; I’ll give her that.” Stella checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror. I'm sure her clothes and shoes won't fit us, she was tiny! The charity shops will have a field day! But those gorgeous scarves we will have to keep." There were a few moments of silence. Stella wiped a tear from her eye. “I don’t suppose it'll matter too much what we say." Stella sighed. "I doubt there'll be anyone there but us. It’s a shame. No one replied to my message in the local paper and I didn’t get a single response to the cards I sent out to those people in her address book.” “We tried, Mum. It was all we could do. Maybe if Hetty had told us anything about her real life, we might have stood more of a chance.” “Her real life. I wonder what happened to the identical quadruplet boys she said she had out of wedlock with the 1960’s film star she refused to name.” “Well, the 60’s was all about free love. Maybe we can give her the benefit of the doubt on that one. Didn't she say they all joined the army?" “Quadruplets?! I don’t think so, Claire. As much as I want to believe she had a loving family at some point, I didn’t see one visitor go to her house since she moved in opposite us. Let alone four .” Stella fiddled with her hat. “How about that time she came over to borrow a casserole dish to put a baby parrot in that she said she’d found abandoned in the park?” “That was so weird. Didn’t you give her some hay from our rabbits, too, to make it comfy? You did indulge her when I think about it. Like with the trifle.” Claire smirked. “Oh my, the trifle! I'd almost forgotten that she woke me up at 2am demanding red fruit to put in a trifle for the vicar’s wife. She swore blind she made a trifle every week, but had just forgotten that day. I’m not sure she even went to church you know. Nonsense.” “Yeah, but you still gave her a punnet of strawberries and a bag of cherries.” “Well, that was all I had!” “Not really the point I’m making, Mum.” “So what about this eulogy?” asked Stella. “We have to do better than ‘she always wore blue.’” “I’m not really sure we can do any better than that. If we told any of these silly stories it'd be like making fun of her. And as much as they have amused us over the last six months, that just feels wrong as part of a church service in her memory.” “I suppose you’re right. It’s so sad we never got to know who she really was. And now we're the only people around to say goodbye.” The hearse rounded a corner off the hedge-trimmed lane and briefly disappeared out of sight. “I think we’re here,” said Claire. “I’ll do the talking if you like. I can say some fairly generic, kind words that we can feel ok about.” “That would be good of you, if you don’t mind.” The funeral car followed the hearse round the bend and pulled into the almost full carpark opposite St. Leonard’s church, as the hearse stopped directly in front of the gothic building. Claire and Stella sat in the back of their car, wide eyed and speechless. Four identical men in full military dress were waiting as the hearse pulled up. They greeted the funeral director and exchanged a few words with him. He pointed to the car that Claire and Stella sat in, and the four men nodded and started to walk towards them. “I don’t believe it! Look at all these cars. Are we at the wrong place?” Stella wound down her window and stared at all the people milling about in the carpark and hanging around the entrance to the church. “I, I don’t think so Mum,” said Claire. “Look, that guy has a parrot and there's a very posh woman over there with a bodyguard!” “And there’s Reverend Gordon and his wife! I’ll be damned if she isn’t holding a trifle! Has that guy got cowboy boots on? And a camera?” At that moment both back doors of the funeral car opened, and Stella and Claire were each greeted by a tall man in spotless military uniform. “Claire and Stella Green?” said a deep, silky voice. “Our mother told us so much about you. It really is an honour.”