The group was sitting around a bond fire. They had all gathered at Ryan’s house after senior prom. With graduation early the next morning, most of the friends had left for bed, or to hook up somewhere else. Only five kids remained, sitting in beach chairs as the fire slowly died down. Leslie was sitting on Ryan’s lap, affectionately twirling her fingers in his hair. Lucas and Cindy were sitting, holding hands and whispering to each other quietly. Jacob was laying with his seat reclined, staring at the stars, with a bud light can dangling in his hands. He was the only one who had really drank that night, Ryan and Lesly preferring weed, and Cindy had been carefully watching Lucas to makes sure he wouldn’t be hungover for graduation. Truthfully, the two couples were secretly hoping Jacob would go to bed, but he was sleeping over at Ryan’s and would probably be staying up as late as everyone else was. Jacob stood up and walked over to the cooler Ryan’s dad had brought down. Mr. Notley had filled it up with Gatorade’s and water, but Jacob and some of their other friends had filled it up with Bud Light and White Claw’s. Jacob turned to friends, “Anyone need a beer?” he asked. “Nah, but can you get me a water?” Ryan asked. “You’re such a pussy, dude.” Jacob responded, but he tossed a water to his friend nonetheless.” “Bro, I cannot drink right now. I would get way too crossfaded.” Ryan responded as he caught the water bottle. “I also got really bad cotton mouth. Low key, I’ve been dying of thirst but I didn’t want to say anything.” “Ryan, why didn’t you say something? I would have gotten up!” Leslie said. “Idk, man. Thought you guys would be weirded out, or something.” Ryan responded. “Dude, did you really just say ‘IDK’ instead of ‘I don’t know.’ How high are?” Lucas said. Ryan burst out laughing and nearly choked as he said, “Pretty fuckin high, dude.” Everybody laughed. Something about the way Ryan laughed was contagious. His mom liked to boast to her friends that he had an “infectious smile” and she was right. He was a kid who got along with everyone, and was quick to welcome anybody to join in whatever he was doing. In fact, he had annoyed his friends when he invited Gabe, a quiet kid who never really talked to anyone, to his house after prom. Gabe had come, and sat quietly by the fire pretending to drink a beer. He didn’t talk to anyone until Ryan had asked everyone to go around the fire and share their favorite memory from high school (Ryan was a camp counselor, and had a habit of forcing everyone to do things around the fire.) One by one, the group shared their memories, things like winning the Lacrosse champion ship junior year, or pep rally senior year were common answers. When it was Gabe’s turn he was hesitant, at first saying “I pass.” But Ryan nicely implored him to speak, saying “Come on man, you gotta have a favorite memory. When you look back at high school, what’s the one thing you’ll remember.” Gabe looked around at everybody, blushing. He wasn’t used to having so many people listening to him. He looked at Ryan and softly said, “I’ll remember tonight. I think it’s the best night of my life.” The group was silent, unsure how to react to this confession that this stupid after prom party was so meaningful to this kid that they barely knew. In the hands of a different person, that may have turned into an awkward moment. Ryan handled it like a pro, giving a high five to Gabe and saying “Me too, man, me too” and raising his drink to give a toast to the night. All of this is to say, it is easy to understand why Leslie was in love with him, and as she watched at Ryan laugh at himself for being too high, she realized that she really was in love with him. He may not really love her, they were only in high school after all, as her mom was quick to point out whenever she mentioned any future with him, but she was deeply in love with him. In fact, in her mind it was perfectly reasonable to want to spend the rest of her life with him. This was dawning on her, and as the laughter died she was staring and Ryan intently, with a slight smile on her face. Ryan noticed the look and asked “What? Is there something on my face?” Leslie giggled, “Nope! I’m just thinking how much I’m going to miss this.” “Miss what?” Cindy asked. “Just...this.” Leslie gestured around the fire, “Hanging out with friends without a care in the world. Just enjoying each other’s company. After this summer, who knows what’s going to happen? We’re all going to different colleges, different paths in life. It’s kind of sad.” “Alright, shut up with the sad talk!” Jacob said as he stood out of his seat. “We can deal with all of that nonsense at the end of the summer. Tonight? We rage!” Leslie and Cindy rolled their eyes as Lucas and Ryan laughed at their drunk friend. “Yeah buddy, this is a rager all right.” Lucas said with a smile. “Raging is about mindset, not about the number of people.” Jacob responded as he grabbed another beer from the cooler. “Whatever you say, bro.” Ryan said. The group grew silent. Cindy yawned and rested her head on Lucas’ shoulder. It was almost one, and they were supposed to be at the school by 7:30 the next morning for one last walk through before graduation. She was about to suggest bed, when Jacob once again broke the silence, “Let’s play a game!” Leslie sighed, “What game?” “I don’t know, something fun!” Jabob responded. “How about truth or dare?” Ryan asked, “Jakey, I dare you to walk to the beach.” “No, that’s lame, I don’t want to do that.” “Ohhh, what are you scared?” Leslie teased. “Big bad Jake is too scared to walk to the beach?” Lucas added in mock surprise. The beach was only about a half mile away from Ryan’s house, in fact a lot of the people who had left the fire early had probably gone there. It was a known secret spot for couples to venture to for some alone time. There was nothing sinister or scary about this walk, it was one they had all made plenty of times. That being said, the two couples saw this as a chance to get rid of Jacob for a little and just enjoy the quietness of the fire. “Jake, my man. If you’re too scared to walk to the beach in the dark just say so!” Ryan said, knowing the exact buttons to push in order to get Jacob to go. “I can always think of an easier dare. If you’re too chicken to walk to the beach, that is.” Jacob stood up and chugged his beer. He stomped over to the cooler grabbed two more, the last two, and turned and stared at his friends. “Fine. I’ll walk to the fuckin beach. You happy?” He turned and walked away. Lucas called after him “Make sure you bring back some sand, so we know you went all the way!” Without turning around Jacob held up his middle finger. The couples laughed and then settled in comfortably. Leslie, still sitting on Ryan’s lap, draped both her arms around him, and rested her neck on his shoulder. Cindy got up and sat on the ground in front of Lucas. She laid her head back on his lap and he began to play with her hair. Within in 15 minutes, all four of them were asleep. Ryan woke up to a bang. He slowly opened his eyes and saw that Jacob was back and was tossing wood on to the fire. He wiped at his eyes, causing Leslie to mumble something he couldn’t make out. “Jake, dude. What time is it?” Jacob looked at him and didn’t respond. Ryan asked again, and received no answer besides another log being put on the fire. He struggled to reach his phone without bothering Leslie, and saw that it was 2:17. About an hour had passed since Jacob had left for the beach. “Jake, I don’t think we need more logs. It’s getting late.” Lucas had been awakened by the second log toss, and now had realized what woke him up “Jacob, shut up, man” Jacob once again looked at him with no response. “What time is it?” Lucas asked Ryan. “Like 2:15.” Ryan responded, closing his eyes again. “Oh shit!” Cindy said, bolting up from where she now lay on the ground, “My dad’s gunna kill me! I gotta get home.” She stood up and walked over to Leslie, gave her a shake and said “Leslie, we gotta go!” Leslie tried to shrug her off and nestle deeper into Ryan’s shoulder, but he began to stand up, “Cindy’s right, Les. You gotta get home. Your dad is probably pissed.” Leslie untangled herself from Ryan and they both stood up. Lucas sighed and got up as well, “I’ll give you guys a ride.” He said. They began walking towards the car, leaving Jacob behind, until he reached out and grabbed Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan turned and asked “What?” Before he could get an answer they heard a yell coming from the driveway, “Guys! Guys! Are you still down here?” A person was sprinting around the corner towards the fire place. They couldn’t make out who it was until he was standing right in front of them. Everyone froze. Ryan looked at Jacob and then back at the new arrival. “What the fuck?” The new arrival was staring at Jacob. He looked as though he was looking at a ghost. He seemed petrified with fear. As if he was seeing something unbelievable. And maybe he was. Because he was staring at himself. Leslie screamed. Lucas stood with a dumbfounded look on his face, Ryan once again asked “What the fuck?”, and Cindy stood clinging to Lucas’s body. The Jacob that had a hold on Ryan’s shoulder smiled. He spoke. “Surprise.”


A dream A lively dream A tiny or big one To cherish in the life To shower lovely rains By washing all odd fouls Creating an eternal abode It's the magic of dream For which heart is always craving!!! The story is for a fighter... We are all fighters. We fight for right .To achieve our dreams, at the real sights. We fight to live. We fight from day to night. The world is full of chaos, challenges. Nothing is achieved without fighting. Every seconds , every moments, every little hope is far from the sight. But if we fight, that's easily at our site. Fighting doesn't mean to blood shedding, to kill someone, to crush forward things. Want something, without making any effort; if don't get, then don't hurt for the lost .We need to make efforts. We need to fight for this. Good is always fighting overcome bad. That's the real fight, right sight; it's fight. We all are fighter, at each platform of life. To overcome, to achieve the goal; for a better life. Alan is a poor guy, belonged to a middle class family. A person in the middle class family, bearing so much responsibilities. He has no right to take a dream for his own. He should think for others. But as a human being , he has also a dream. That resides in his mind secretly. He never knows that is still litten and try to express, when the suitable time is come. Dream sings a song by his subconscious mind... Reflection of mind Life gives us so many challenges Lot of them are full of uncertainty Anything can be possible at that site Death or alive is not a concern of prime It's demanded by life Making me fulfill by your pride Dark or light that's not right I want to be illuminated by all sites At least one thing is so bright Making dream day to night The dream is blooming in the mind Sketching the best scene in that canvas Loving caring with dear ones Shining the surroundings with all strikes Creating a land of mysterious colors Not a place for any painful acts There no conflict exists within all All are friend under the same roof Is it a day dream or reflection of mind Which is always nourishing in all minds The universe is the only abode Where life is only one Don't waste it anymore Take a deep breathe to pursue the dream You have the spirit hidden itself Awakening that spiritual power To make the dream in reality Alan is smirking!!! Yes, I should pursue my dream by hook or by crooks. But that's not so easy. In his family, he has 2 little sisters. His parents are sick. They live in a shabby house. So much hardships making life so measurable, yet he never gives up. The dream is persisted in his mind. Mind is so bold to hold. He has achieved first position at the graduation. Now, searching for a job. A job, in a multinational company is founded. Within 6 months, he is promoted. His outstanding performances mesmerized all. He gets the golden chance to move to foreign. But he denied. If he went away, how can the family be survived? He must take care the family first. Lisa is his beloved. She tells -Alan, now it's time for us to marry. My family pressurize me for marriage. I tell them all about you. They want to talk with you. Are you ready for going? Alan is so surprised. How can I marry now? I have two sisters. They should be married first. A lot of responsibilities on my shoulder. I can't think about my life right now. Lisa- what do you mean by that? We together can bit the battle. What's the problem? I say no; that's not fair. It’s one kind of selfishness! “How much time do you need to take the initiative?” Alan-I don’t know that; may be 5 or 10 years. Lisa- I am surprised! Do you think my family is listening you? “I can't wait such a long time .Then you should forget me.” I am silence. Just get up and go away. The love story is ended. My heart is broken. Dreams are shattered. But, I hide all the pains, inside itself. My thoughts myriads... Hidden pain Fiercing heart Burning soul Blank mind Blind eyes Vacant brain Blurred thoughts All are happened Due to hidden pain That pain Can’t talk Can’t express The sea of pain Always wavering Inside itself Sometimes for a while Overflowing Comes out As a drop of tear Hidden tears A bridge build up To walk Over the tears Still not showing To win the open world Only living In the hidden pain world!!! I have come back home. Father is so sick. Mother is worried. Siblings are quarrelling. There's a lot of issues. My mind is vulnerable. I go to my room. Why the life is so strange? Give so much challenges . I am ready to sacrifice all, for all of my beloved ones. The night is so scary. My love is going far away . I’m going to lose her forever . I have no choice left. Oh God! HELP ME! The moonlight is so bright Try to talk with me Let's me share my pains Only with you The dream !!!! Never tired to come at my door. Always knock, yet the door can't open. Time is passed by this way. Year to year is passed. Now 9 years are passed . So many incidents are happened. I lost my father. My mother is in bed. Two sisters are married. I have done, all my responsibilities very sincerely. My professional life is also so enlighten . I'm settled in life. I am very pleased after doing that all. I feel so relax. A solace!!!! At the evening, I go for a walk. Then, sit on the bench . For a while, I am lost myself. I don't know, where I was belonged. A deep breathe. I was fight at my life as a freedom fighter. My youth is faded. It reached in the verge of the life. Suddenly one day.... A little celebration is taken by the mysterious life. A poem is recited by my mind... After a long time They again meet each other Both of them are quite surprised Today they are far apart Once a time When they were love birds Fate gave them a tough time They couldn't connect At the verge of certain platform Fate gives them that golden chance Now they seem to be so happy Bcz their life pass alongside with lovely memories This day is a big one Just celebrate it By heart!!! My lost love is now come back in my life. I’m happy. After sufferings all, now the luck is in my hand. Both of us hold our hands. The evergreen dream of eternal love is true. We are going to create the divine in this earth. The universe of our eternal love!


I'd been pondering on loads of options to cope with the terrible breakup that took place a couple of weeks ago. I didn't feel like talking to the jerk, David who chose to ditch me for my best friend! Well, EX best friend. I mean seriously, could it be any worse? I still couldn't believe Nina actually double faced me the whole time she entertained that jerk to cheat on me. What could I possibly think then? Whatever happened, happened in reality. Anyway, among all the potential coping mechanisms I'd scavenged so far, the one suggested by my cousin, Casey seemed to be more appropriate and lesser aggressive than the other ones. So, basically the task I was to perform was simply writing down messages by pouring out all the rages and curses that had been terribly brewing inside my heart. Then instead of sending them to the jerk, I needed to leave it in the note app of my phone. But interestingly, I came across the mysterious story of Mark Twain and his unsent letters more or less around the same time. In the case of Twain, he used to write down letters addressing to particular people, then tore them down without sending to those addressed. The interesting part was, he still got letters from those people answering the questions he asked or talking about topics he mentioned in his unsent letters. Never mind! I was just another girl who got dumped by the one she thought the love of her life, for the one she thought to be her best friend. No magic, no psychic power involved whatsoever. So, I aggressively typed out a whole Essay-length message trying my best to let out all the entrapped anger intending to the fricking cheater. Heaving out a deep, heavy breath, I gave it a read. Wow! My mind was quite murderous at that point! "Choking the life out of him on his own car seat... Banging his head constantly against the metallic body of his favorite minivan until the head becomes a heap of blood and flesh... Making his sweetheart, Nina regret doing what she did so much so that she'd be possessed terribly by the self-loathing which would make her hang herself...." Woah! Only if I could make these happen! However, writing them down definitely helped to ease the weight on my shoulders. That was Thursday when I left the message unsent locking it down inside the note app. Friday... Saturday... Sunday... Monday...Tuesday... Wednesday had passed just like that. Of course, nothing would happen! I was just a regular girl... As a whole week passed without any fuss, I chose not to sweat my head over it. "Lily! Did you hear what happened?" Mom's voice filled with shock and anxiety. "No, why? What is it?" "David had an accident an hour back, and they couldn't save him. Gosh! The boy died; I still can't believe!" O wow! David died? Must be some coincidence, and not anything related to my message! "How's that happened? I mean, the accident?" "He was found in his car, head like a distorted heap of blood and flesh! He was heading towards this way, inside our locality. The weirdest thing is, he told his mom he's gonna have to meet you ASAP before leaving the house. Didn't you guys break up? Don't wanna get nosy but was it anything important between you to talk about?" "Uh-huh" I indistinctly uttered. Now Mom's words cut through my numb brain like a flash of lightening. Is it really happening? God! I can be dead aggressive in writing notes on my phone but I don't have the heart to murder someone. Still there was a flicker of possibility that it was a mere coincidence. Mom took her purse before ducking out of the house, "I'm going to Brenda's place, she must be devastated after losing the only son. Poor thing! Oh! Casey asked me to tell you something else, um... Some girl from your class, Nina hanged herself this morning. God bless the young generation! Why would you guys die at this age!" she exhaled a deep sigh. How could I keep living with the guilt of a murderer! Being a murderer without even attempting to murder... Being under the "magickal" force when the whole time, I longed my life to be "magical"! I was a regular girl until... I was not anymore. The story could end right there. But did it? Nope. I woke up from the nightmare panting heavily. Cold sweat started rolling down my temples. I looked up at the ceiling for a while before clambering down the bed to drink water. The kitchen light was on which seemed a little weird cos it was almost 3 in the morning. Maybe mom forgot to turn it off after being done with the huge workloads her boss shoves at her every day. I pour a glass of water when I heard the sound. Instantly my heart leapt up to my throat. And again! "What is happening over there? What's this sound?" gulping hard I look over my shoulder. I was almost paralyzed with fear when a shadow seemed to move around the corner of the stairs. Shakily, I move towards the kitchen door. "Lily? You there?" Dad's voice filled with fear and something else I didn't quite comprehend. "Dad? What is it? Why are you up this late?" "It's your mom... She, she hanged herself." "You kidding, right? Why would she do that?" "It's not her! It can't be her... She acted like a total possessed... I tried to stop her but she just shoved me away. She seemed so strong and I failed to save her, Lily!" his eyes tearing up. Now! How would I describe it? Did I bring the curse on my own mother by writing down a silly text? "Dad, wait up. You shouldn't go outside now. Please, no..." Before I could finish my words, dad was already outside the house. He actually could've just called 911 but he went out himself instead. Why? To become a heap of blood and flesh? My limbs stiffened and I kept standing right there thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. I really was a regular girl until... I was not ANYMORE.


It was pitch black on that back country road that night, the car was almost out of gas, and a baby who he knew would never know fame nor success nor love was crying in the passenger seat. You wouldn’t have known it at first sight - at one year old, she already sprouted a mass of jet black curls that spilled down her head and a tendency to grasp, squirm, experiment, escape and cause trouble that you would not have known would alienate and drive away any adult that would have otherwise helped her in life, were you not told. The politically wise would have guessed the truth at the sight of the caramel-colored skin that would, in no small part, mark her fate. You’d have really known it as you saw her claw at him. He’d have been sick of her shit a long time ago if it wasn’t for the job. And of course, he’d have to pick *this* road. A grand total of forty-five miles away from anybody else, the shoulders overrun with weeds and grass and brush, and the only illumination at his disposal of course being the fucking moon, *this* was the safest route, and the tank was running on empty. He couldn’t even risk turning on his emergency headlights for fear of discovery, even out here. He pulled down a wooded dirt road and stopped the car. And it was there, shielded from the harsh cold light of the moon by silhouettes of maples and oaks, enveloped and wrapped in the thick lush growth of early summer, that the fucking baby finally, *finally* stopped crying. The lone pink barrette donning her hair had come loose; the other one was lost in the aftermath of her fit. Her black, rhinestone-endowed tee was soaked in drool and sweat and tears. He was fairly certain she had soiled her pants. With each tiny breath, she turned to and fro, examining her surroundings with the kind of trepidation you would normally expect to see in someone decades her senior. He could see her body shaking - feel her tiny fingernails pinching his flesh, even still - and was thankful that at least for now, she was quiet. Each second of the first attempt in her life to regain her composure was followed with a hiccup, or a sniffle. She pushed her mop of curls away from her face with hands that in three decades' time he knew would kill millions. And she looked up at him with large, soft, puffy dark eyes that he knew, had she been born in better days, would have melted hearts. Her cheeks were slick with her tears. Her grip was loosening. His hands were slick with his sweat, and with blood. He wouldn’t be able to deal with her like this. He wouldn’t even be able to hold the knife. Actually getting a hold of the kid in the first place had been a fucking nightmare. Her father was every bit as monstrously violent and ruthless as she alluded to in her final writing now dubbed The Last Manifesto. His neck still hurt from her father’s stubby, steely grip - he understood now why she hated the motherfucker so much. And speaking of mothers, it was strange to him how despite clearly knowing what he had come to do, that the baby’s mother didn’t do anything to stop him. She had cowered, and she had begged, and she had cried, sure, but her actions, her every moment up to her last, were consumed by this grey, tepid resignation that he was certain was the root of her apathy as described in The Last Manifesto. It was in those ten decisive minutes that led up to this that he discovered for himself why it was his boss made him read the fucking thing over and over again, not just to memorize it but to truly absorb it, to embrace it. He looked at the baby - material and social conditions at this point in the past really were just as bizarre and horrifying as she had described. And for all of the pure shadowed night and clean air and lush growth around them, he couldn’t understand why. That house of theirs was fucking loaded. What had possessed her parents to become such monsters? The Last Manifesto had briefly mentioned a brother and spoke at length about a sister of hers who played an integral role in her path to vengeance, domination and destruction. He supposed he - and his knife - had managed to get to them before the sibling's conception. He saw no sign of the elder brother when he infiltrated the house. Four years old, and blonde, and completely unmanageable from what he could gather from historical records, her brother would likely spend his life marked by the trauma that would guarantee everyone else a lengthy and prosperous existence, as miserable as it may be for him personally. And that was the only comfort he could take as he pushed down his seat, shook his hand away and dug around the back, looking first for a cloth to wipe his hands and then for the knife. It was only when he pushed the seat back up two minutes later that he had noticed her watching him and she had started whimpering. Her earlier attempts to dig into his flesh stung throughout his hand, his arm really. Little droplets of blood trailed down his pale, hairy skin. It didn’t matter though; he’d just patch himself up after the job was done, but in the present moment, there was nothing he could do to stop that *whimpering.* It was a helpless, squealing, pathetic equivalent of begging from the baby, begging that his boss and his people had yearned, struggled, and spent years fighting to hear, yet now, in a moment that for anyone else from his time would have been a cathartic and magnanimous triumph, he just felt so... hollow. Unsteady. Not right. The inside of the car was hot, stiflingly so. It was only now that he had noticed the thick pocket of air his faded fatigues were holding in. The thick heat in the air sat heavy in his lungs with every breath. He flexed his toes - they were squished tight in his worn black boots and the laces were tied so tight that he could feel a very particular cramp from his left ring toe start to flare up. He could feel his M9 poking at his backside. His grip on his Ontario MK3 Navy issued knife was slick, not with the blood from the first half of the job, but with his sweat. The air in this car was like home, too much like home. In his time, the average temperature ranged from around 65F in the wintertime, if they were lucky, to on average 115F in the summer, and this was up in the mountains. The humidity permeated the air so utterly and completely that it would leave his skin clammy and glistening during training exercises. His boss, a tiny, steely woman with obsidian eyes would give you a look that would pierce you in very particular and very nasty ways if she caught you buckling even slightly under the burning weight of the air. She purposefully trained him for this mission in that shit, in her own words, to make him appreciate. He fucking hated it. He fucking hated every inch of her short, scrawny, bronze-skinned little ass every time she would make him do it. But the first thing he noticed when he stepped through the portal at the start of the mission was the soothing cool breeze in the evening air, and that was when he realized why she did that. He’d never known the wind to bring relief. In his time, it brought destruction and radiation and misery, all thanks to the tiny baby sitting next to him, whimpering. The first loving, icy lick of the stuff already had him addicted. That was what he was here to fight for. To kill for. The job was supposed to be simple, a quick in-and-out. Portal jump to June 15 1987 7:04 PM, capture the target, eliminate any and all witnesses, eliminate the target, meet at rendezvous point at exactly 11:24 PM, portal jump back home, and hopefully reappear in a better time where all he would be is a stranger to the people he saved. A time where the land was still green and pure and not seared black and grey by plasma blasts and nuclear fire. A time that the baby sitting next to him, whimpering, would never get to see or enjoy or appreciate, because of the actions of the maniacs in that house with her, and the choices she would make in kind. She was a cute little thing, or as cute as a terrified, traumatized, stinking, whimpering pile of fat and curls and flesh could possibly be, and it was at that moment that the weight of his knife pulled his hand downward. He rolled down the driver’s side window. His neck was lovingly kissed and stroked by a breeze the other grunts back home would never get to feel, and the little bits of it that made it past his large and imposing frame made the kid sigh a soft sigh of, relief, he guessed? At least now she finally shut up, if only for a second. Now came the fucking cooing. He hung his head down and an exasperated sigh pushed past his lips. His boss would’ve been ashamed of him to see him like this. He could already imagine her putting a hand to her greyed, thick hair and shaking her head - and then glaring at him. On September 15th 2026, the baby cooing next to him would make the world burn in nuclear fire, and according to his boss and The Last Manifesto, that burning was only about 53% as intense and all-consuming as the burning she felt every day as a result of the irreversible psychological damage brought upon her by her family and by the New American Empire that subjugated her. His boss made him read The Last Manifesto over and over and over again, not to memorize it, but to truly *absorb* it, to *embrace* it. It was only as he looked upon the baby as she played with her tiny blood-stained sneakers, that he realized that his boss didn’t just do this to prime his mind against the inevitable guilt of murdering an entire family that would have hung on his mind regardless of the good it would do. It was something particular about the baby’s big, soft, dark eyes - maybe it was the full moon shining from the roof window downward, he didn’t know - but the light sparked a hint of sharpness in them, a hint of obsidian. And the boss’s greyed, thick hair, though perpetually tied in a bun as per Coalition of Humanity regs, would sometimes betray the barest hint of a curl. Per his training, he was required to study the history of the New American Empire and the height of American civilization from the 1980s, to the start of it’s downfall in the early 2000s, and the rampage started in the early 2020s by the little baby next to him, who had some-fucking-how managed to unlock her seat-belt, that would consign humanity to a fate as horrific as it was indelible - at least until his boss managed to rise in the ranks. Some-fucking-how, that bitch had managed to rise from lowly grunt to petty officer to chief scientist in the space of only three years, and in the twenty-five years since the destruction of the biosphere from the nuclear fire, she had managed to somehow, some way, build a fucking time machine. A portal, she had called it. It was she who proposed its construction as the only way to undo the massive influx of radiation and irreversible runaway climate change triggered by the rampage that would otherwise doom all of humanity to extinction. It was she who had proposed changing the past, and undoing the bearer of all of this destruction, before she could undo everyone else. It was she who had purposefully chosen *him* for the most sensitive and most important mission in all of human history - and it was *she* who had forced him to read The Last Fucking Manifesto over and over and over again - sometimes forcefully, sometimes balefully - not just to memorize it but to truly *absorb* it, to *embrace* it. And now he understood why. The baby was crawling into his lap now, using his thigh as a stepping stool as she tried, in her own haphazard infantile way, to grab his wife-beater and pull herself up. The baby was likely already deeply traumatized. The baby was an orphan now. The baby was filthy. But he’d be damned if he’d let his boss down, and he’d be damned if he’d let her grow up to bring about the end of all life on this planet. What he didn’t know was whether his boss had actually anticipated him doing what he did next. He took hold of the baby and popped the car door open. He stepped out into the deliciously cool night air, and as the baby snuggled into his chest, he wondered how much of that was due to the chill air and how much of it was due to the fact that she was likely unused to gentle treatment given in earnest. He checked the watch on his wrist his boss was reaching for as he started walking. It was already 11:15 PM. There was no way in hell he’d make it to the rendezvous point, but he didn’t care. He knew there would be a better time - he’d make sure of it. And he’d live out that better time with his boss now, not just to experience it but to truly *absorb* it. To *embrace* it. And he’d make sure his boss could, too.


Fenix hit the atmosphere hard. He felt the Lady Gray shudder in protest as the air outside thickened, fighting against the ungainly bulk of the ship forcing its way towards the surface through the night sky. He imagined the dull pitted gray of the ship’s underbelly slowly began to turn a deep orange and then a white hot, as the ablative plating was slowly burnt away. That would need replacing, he sighed to himself. Safely nestled in the cockpit and buckled down into the acceleration couch, Fenix scanned the readings being thrown across his lenses and display screens. It was hot and stuffy in the cabin. The stale air being recycled continuously by the oxygenator did nothing to pull the rank smell of his unwashed body from the air. It had been weeks since he had been able to do anything more than cursory wipe down with antibacterial towels. He tortured himself once more with the thought of the bath he would take when this job was over, trying to calculate how much of his profit he could afford to spend on the water allowance needed for such a luxury. A small incessant chirping from his nearest display was demanding attention. As he pulled the screen closer, dragging his thumb across the small angry looking notification in the top most corner. A spew of data slid past his eyes, listing levels and temperatures in the various tanks and equipment throughout the ship. The rear starboard side fuel tank was reporting a slow loss in pressure again. Slightly worrying, but it had been reporting that for weeks now and nothing he did seemed to fix the issue. He had even resorted to shouting and threatening it but to no avail. He muted the warning and added it to the list of things to investigate when he was next able to afford a full service. The flight information for his current descent was running as a constant feed in his lenses. He absorbed most of the incoming information on a subconscious level while his main focus was fixed on the feed from the hull cameras. He scanned through the clouds and highlighted his destination, a small outcropping of islands off the south coast of England. He’d made this trip dozens of times now, and so far he'd had no major issues. Which somewhat troubled his superstitious mind. Too many good runs in a row was never a good sign. But then neither were too many bad runs, he mused. You couldn’t really call these things until something happened. But he had the feeling something was bound to catch up with him sooner rather than later. He could feel the fatigue of the past weeks starting to make itself felt, its delicate tendrils creeping into his mind and limbs. Whispering into his ear to sleep. He dialed in an order for the ship to administer his preferred concoction of stimulants and analgesics to fight off the need for rest. After a brief pause, two small capsules were spat out of the dispenser to his right, which he snached up and swallowed dry. As he waited for them to kick in, he checked and then rechecked his entry coordinates and those of his destination, making the habitual scan for the tell-tale pings that would indicate his craft was being monitored. Everything seemed to be in order. The overlapping satellites and sentry drones that monitored the upper atmosphere had the occasional hole appear in their coverage that he was able to take advantage of and slip through. Still, it was hard to hide a ship hurtling from the sky in a fireball of its own making. Smuggling was no one's first choice for work, but the pay was good and he was desperate. What made it slightly easier these days was the exponential increase of traffic to and from the colonies scattered across the edge of the solar system, who were exploiting the mineral rich asteroids of the outer belt. And exploiting them had become the new gold rush as companies and individuals fought to grab a share of the market. Fenix was just one more trying to make ends meet. The shaking reverberating through the ship had reached its peak. Fenix was almost unable to hear himself think over the noise of the interior rattling. Things began coming loose in the cabin. Photos had fallen and a number of his trinkets had been sent scattering across the small cramped space. It was coming up to his least favorite part of the reentry. He was waiting until the very last second to deploy his thrusters to slow the ship, as local authorities would be suspicious if their scans caught the sudden ignition of the engines anywhere over 1000 meters. He fired off a quick prayer to whatever deity was looking down on him this time and, a little under his target altitude, hit the thrusters. The couch swelled and cushioned his body as the forces on his fragile body multiplied while his organs tried to escape out of his throat. The ship slowed from its free fall descent and he switched to atmospheric flight. Short stubby wings angled out from the body of the hull allowing him to steer the craft towards a small cove below. Landing belly down in the slowly churning surf, the cold sea water rapidly cooled the ship’s battered and scorched plating. He unbuckled himself from the couch and stood unsteadily, having to stoop due to the confines of the interior. He peered out of the front view port to see a group of small boats making their way towards him from the beach. Their outboard motors kicking up white tails as they cut through the dark water. He caught his reflection in the port side window as he moved about the small space. He didn’t strike an imposing figure. Skinny and malnourished from his time spent in zero gravity environments. His coveralls hung from his body, sagging, in odd places as he hadn't been able to afford the full body modifications to fully adapt to long term space travel. His greasy black hair, which was swept back from his face revealed deep craggy lines across his forehead and cheeks, while the three week growth of scraggly beard did nothing to hide his hollow cheeks. It turns out a diet of narcotics and cheap coffee can only get you so far, he thought wryly to himself. “Oh well”, he said out loud, to the empty cabin. “Looks like this intrepid space traveler will have to do for now”. He reached up and unfasted the heavy locks holding the hatch closed and heaved himself up and out into the cold night air to meet the party coming to collect the contraband he had stashed in the hold.


Hi, I’m Dave. Cutting to the chase, the apocalypse happened and now I’m a zombie. I don’t really remember how it happened (memory tends to get a little hazy when there’s a hole in your skull), but I do know it was sudden, unexpected, and generally all the interesting stuff was over and done with pretty early. I was one of those people that always thought they’d make it to the end, y’know? Never occurred to me to think there isn’t an end cause it already happened. Those guys in their parents basement who had a hand-me-down pocket knife and watched every movie so thought they’d survive, find a base, get the girl, and ride off into the sunset. Yeah, kinda cringe with the benefit of undead hindsight. I mean, I didn’t even find a girl at all before getting bit! Well, there is this one girl, but we’ll get to that. Anyway, being dead isn’t all that bad. I’m not tired anymore, I don’t get hurt if I bump into the corner of a table, I get to travel a lot, and I have a bunch of new friends to hang out with. I don’t really know their names, but I could pick them out of a crowd. There’s Blue, I call him that because of his hoodie. Basically my best friend now, even if we can’t shoot the shit over beers or have game night. Really, he’s just been walking next to me for about half a year now. Cool dude. The only bad thing I really can think of is that I’m like, really hungry all the time. It doesn’t bother you, I guess, no pain remember, but you always remember it’s there, especially when you get a whiff of people. Don’t know how it works now since I don’t breathe, but I can smell people from like, half a mile away. I don’t really know how to describe it, but it’s kinda like smelling your favourite food from growing up multiplied by eleven. When we catch that smell, we all shrug over in that direction and keep up our usual pace. My favourite direction we go in is to the left, because when we do I can just catch a glimpse of Green. Green probably isn’t, or I guess wasn’t, her name, but I gotta make do and so I call her that from the blood stained T-shirt she has on. I’ve never seen her face completely, but I can tell from the still intact cheek I can see when we all turn she really is beautiful. The rot never really took her face, and her hair still has that small bit of graceful bounce it had when she was still alive. Every time we do turn left, and I can just steal a glance, Blue always notices and intentionally bumps his whole body into mine. I know he’s trying to get me to make a move because I can see his exposed facial muscles approximate a smirk. I never do though, always telling myself I should stay in my place so we can keep up. Damn, I wish I had the willpower to push through the crowd to see her. There’s times when the people we’re looking for find us first, those are the bad days. They gun down some of us, or lead us off into some other direction where we lose the scent, or we catch them and we all have a nice bite. Those are the good days. Contrary to what I thought when I was alive, and I guess what the living still think, we undead aren’t assholes. When we get someone down, we hand chunks around so that we all can at least get something. Of course the ones who made the kill get more but that’s understandable. Afterwards, we help the guy up if there’s enough of him left to walk and we welcome him like family. Green was one of those people, joined us about two months ago. I remember when she got back up, the whole crowd seemed to get a new spring in their step. We all kinda, y’know, felt a bit more alive I guess. Even now, we all seem to move at her pace. She is at the front of the crowd, so it makes sense, but nobody passes her or turns without her doing so first. She must have been a really influential person in life, a natural born and died leader. Just the other day, I guess Blue got fed up with my rottenness and haphazardly whacked me with the remnants of his arm. He then let out a noise that I guess was an attempt at encouragement and tilted his head forward. Since then, I’ve been working up the guts, or lack there of, to finally move up that measly five meters that may as well be a thousand miles with a wall in between. I’ve decided I’m gonna, I just don’t know what to do when I get up next to her. Say hi? Can’t, throats perforated. Hold her hand? Nope, seems needy. All I can do, and all I really want to do, is just see her face. Before I can even notice what I’m doing, my usual slow trudge picks up a bit of energy. Blue rasps out a death rattle that must have been a laugh. I press by Suit (some guy who must have been a businessman), by Richard (I could see his name tag on his torn shirt from behind), and manage to settle in a place just next to the most beautiful corpse in the world. If I still had the parts of my bladder needed, I’d probably be pissing myself with nervousness right now. I’m right next to the perfectly sculpted cheek I’ve been admiring from so close yet so far for months now, and I can see her eye and nose too are the kind you could only see on the covers of magazines. Green notices I’m next to her, and turns her neck with only a few muscles torn and I am truly in awe. Even with the other half of her face torn and shredded, she really had the face of a fallen angel. While all of us had dirt and grime caked to our flaking skin, soil seemed to retreat from the surfaces of her face, leaving only the pale porcelain skin exposed. Her hair which was obviously still taken care of after the apocalypse never seemed to go dark from decay and part of it partly concealed the devoured half of her visage. Even her teeth, though exposed to the harsh sun and biting wind from the hanging jawbone, still glinted like bloodstained pearls in the light. Green kept her haunting gaze at me. I have no idea what to do. I’m panicking. What do I say? Do I tell a joke? A pickup line? Wait, that’s right, I can’t. I know it’s corny, and honestly if I saw anyone else do it I’d roll my eyes right out of their sockets, but I reach up into my rib cage and pull out my heart. With a gesture, I hold it up for her to see, hoping I at least got my message across. She sees it. So far so good. She places her hand on my heart and presses it back and into my chest. Did I just get rejected? Did I fail? I never should have listened to Blue! Honestly, I’m just feeling a little defeated. I’m trying to slink back to my place next to Blue, head held low, but her grip on my hand doesn’t ease up. I look back up at her and she’s still looking at me. Her hand drops limply back to her side with mine still held. I’m probably the luckiest cadaver in the world right now, and I have no idea what I’m doing. Green looks back forward just as the scent of people washes over the crowd. We all lurch to the right as, hand in hand, I get to take Green to a dinner date.


In a cottage at the edge of town, an acclaimed artist awoke from sleep screaming. She had experienced an illusion shattering premonition in a dream. She had seen a vision foretelling what was ahead for the people. In the dream, she saw a great gathering of people looking adoringly at the King giving him their rapt attention and becoming increasingly agitated as he spoke. When he finished speaking, he raised his fist and pointed toward the iconic building where all laws of the land originated. The people were poisoned in their minds and hearts by the multitude of lies the King had told them during the last four years, which had resulted in a toxic ocean of fear and hate. in her dream, that toxicity was obvious and rampant amongst the people at the gathering . She awoke screaming because she had seen the horrible consequences of all those lies. The dream had culminated in violence and blood. Most of the people of the land were frightened about their future. Four years under the previously elected Executive’s rule had brought little to the tables of the common folk and a lot to the tables of the King, as he preferred to be called, and his minions. The King had a bad habit of lying about things both great and small. He had been lying to the people for so long that most of them had lost their ability, and in some cases, even their desire to discriminate between fact and fiction. When he was a business tycoon, the King had lied and once he gained political power through an election, his lying had taken on a greater scope. However, though frightened, the people followed him because he repeatedly told them that only he could fix everything that was broken. Fueled by their fears and desperation, they believed him and embraced his lies as truth. Greater problems arose when the time came for the King's reelection because a plague ravaged the land revealing flaws that needed to be addressed in the public health system. Sadly, these flaws were not addressed. The King declared with a wave of his hands that the pestilence would disappear magically. It didn’t. Many people died of the plague. In fact, most of the things he had promised to fix or build were not fixed or built by the end of his elected term, and he lost the election to a fellow with lots of experience in sorting out problems in government. The King refused to acknowledge he had lost. He traveled around the land for two months prior to the Inauguration of the newly elected Executive gaining support for his biggest lies of all. The King claimed he had not lost the election. He had won. The election was stolen from him. He repeatedly pushed the story-trap of “us v. them.” Such a narrative had not ended well when that same story-trap had ensnared the people’s ancestors in ages past, but his followers had forgotten their own history. The King expanded his claim to overturn the results of the election through multiple court cases, which he lost. This infuriated him, so on the day the newly elected Executive was to be officially certified as the winner, the King called upon his supporters to gather one more time outside the Great House, home to the top elected official of the land. The invitation to the gathering went out two weeks in advance using the chit chat online option. Many people saw it and made their plans to come to this gathering that the King promised would be wild. The King was very excited about this gathering and wanted to have a majestic new suit of clothes to wear for the gathering. He decided to have a contest and sent out his minions to find fashion designers to enter the contest. “Design for the King! Win a prize!” This caused quite a stir among authentic designers, and others who wanted to try for the unnamed prize. Many designers came and went presenting drawings and obsequiously appealing to the King’s vanity, which was immense. All to no avail. The King was not pleased at all. The date of the gathering was drawing near. RSVPs were pouring in from all over the land. The King was becoming desperate and continuously obsessed over what he would wear to the gathering. Finally, one day, two young, enterprising designers well versed in the art of sycophancy, arrived at the Great House. They praised the King and complimented him assiduously while measuring him always proclaiming what a fine figure of a man he was. A few days later, they arrived with many boxes. They opened a box and described its contents of pants, shirt, jacket, amidst an ongoing patter about how fine these clothes would look on him, making him more handsome than ever and thus more believable than ever. Grinning with anticipation, the King stood ready. The designers shooed everyone else from the room, and they dressed the King. He stood proudly in his new clothes. Various Great House workers were brought in one at a time to view the King in his new attire. Because they desired to please him and not incur his wrath, they all said how fine he looked in his new attire. The King was delighted. So, he finally looked in his special mirror, which always reflected what he wanted to see not reality, and so he saw what he wanted to see, himself dressed in splendid attire. Yet, he had a nagging feeling that something was missing. “Where’s my tie?” growled the King. “Right here,” bespoke one of the designers and brought forth from his pocket a bright red tie which he looped around the King’s neck and stepped back. “Ah, perfect!” exclaimed the King, patting the tie. Meanwhile, after awakening from her dream, the acclaimed artist felt obligated to warn the people about her premonition, whether they believed her warning, or not, she had to try. She was an intuitive but admittedly didn’t always know how something would actually play out in real time. Nevertheless, she felt it was urgent for the health and well-being of the people that she try to warn them. There were three days left before the gathering at the Great House was scheduled to happen. She spent the first day furiously painting words on multiple large cardboards that said such things as: -THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE! -WHEN YOU ARE FREE TO SEE TRUTH, YOU WILL REJECT LIES. -AFTER REJECTING LIES, YOU WILL SING AND DANCE AND BE THE BEST YOU CAN BE...ALL OF YOU! -BE KIND. -LOVE EACH OTHER. -CARE FOR EACH OTHER. -LOVE LIGHTS THE WAY TO TRUTH. Around midnight, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. On the second day, she mounted the cardboards on the outside of her retired school bus that she used for her traveling art shows. She drove all around the neighborhoods surrounding the Great House. The ever-alert journalists that covered the Great House filmed clips and the clips began to attract attention on the nightly news shows, especially the late-night comedians. On the third day before the gathering, she was interviewed on national television by a well-known cable news journalist. The journalist asked her why she was sending out her message. She patiently told the story of her dream and the premonition of violence resulting from the continued lies from the King. She said she felt it was her duty as a citizen to warn the people. Most people thought she was a religious or political crackpot and ignored the warning. In reality, she was neither. She was simply a citizen who cared about Truth. The last words she uttered in the interview were, “Change is coming. I do not claim to know what form it will take. I do know that in my dream there was blood and violence.” Then, the network producers abruptly ended her interview with a disclaimer on a black screen disavowing endorsement of the content of the interview. The Great House staff issued a statement saying the artist was in the hospital being treated for mental instability. This was a lie. The word on the street was, “Ah, just another crazy artist.” The people who had been planning to go to the gathering ignored the warning and went. More people also went who were intrigued by the warning, even if they didn’t actually believe in it. In the end, attendance in-person at the gathering the next day tripled what was expected. Men, women, and children streamed into the park near the Great House, where the gathering was taking place. Most were excited to see the King’s new attire which had been publicized by the Great House media team for a week before the gathering. Media coverage was massive and millions tuned it to watch. The day of the gathering began with a military parade escorting the becloaked King to the stage where the microphone awaited him. He had declined a podium because he wanted his new attire to be in full view of the people. The King waved, and then with great drama, shed his cloak to show off his newly designed attire. He preened before the crowd. Everyone clapped. That is, all except one child who stared and stared without clapping, even when her mother nudged her to do so. She just continued to stare at the King. Then, the King stepped up to the microphone to speak. The crowd quieted in anticipation. From the back of the crowd, the acclaimed artist watched in horror as the familiar shower of lies was again presented as facts. The King vociferously claimed, “Only I can save you from the perils posed by the forces against me, which means anyone who isn’t with me. Are you with me?” The crowd roared with glee. He continued, “I really won the recent election, not the other fellow. There was massive voter fraud. The election was stolen. I am your true King and always will be.” The crowd roared again with glee. At this point in his speech, the King paused to take a sip of water with both hands from a filled glass on a small nearby table. The crowd was silent, waiting for him to continue when suddenly a child’s voice rose into the air. “Look, Mommy, the King has nothing on but that red tie! He looks so funny...” the child said and exploded into a fit of giggles. The child’s giggles started a chain reaction in the crowd. Laughter rippled through the crowd and as the laughter spread from person to person, that laughter opened the people’s eyes and hearts, and they saw the truth. Their king was standing naked on the stage but for the red tie. The King didn’t know why they were laughing since he thought laughter wasn’t warranted given the beauty of his new attire and the beauty of himself. Thus, the laughter angered him. He slammed down the glass of water and raised his hand in the power salute all knew only too well. He started to speak but before he could utter another word, he began to sputter and gag, choking uncontrollably. He grabbed at his tie as if it were a lifeline, but the gagging only got worse. Many people thought he was just trying to be funny, as he sometimes did, and laughed louder to show their appreciation of his joke. However, each laugh only meant more people were awakened to see the truth that the King was naked. Greater laughter rose from the crowd. With each laughing voice, the King’s gagging grew worse. Minions rushed onto the stage to try to help, but he waved them off. Seconds passed. They stood and watched along with all the people at the gathering and those watching everywhere on media as the King turned shades of blue and then a deep royal purple and keeled over face first onto the stage. Dead. From her vantage point in the crowd, the acclaimed artist who had heeded her premonition and tried to warn the people, smiled. She understood immediately. The King had choked on his own lies fueled by the words of truth spoken by a child and the people’s laughter. She was grateful that her premonition of violence and blood had not come to be that day; the Light of Truth had been rekindled. She turned and left the gathering. Pandemonium broke loose in her wake. Each giggle, chortle, and laugh escaping the lips of the people was now accompanied by shouts and mutterings from the people as their awakening progressed, and they emerged from the illusory web of the King’s lies that had entrapped them for years. Now, he who was once their king lay naked and dead on the stage before the eyes of the world. Myth-makers, corrupted politicians, and Great House doctors tried to spin what happened by saying the King had choked on water, but that last big lie didn’t take hold in the minds of the people. Everyone knew he died choking on his many lies when his nakedness was revealed by a child. Everyone knew the people’s hearts and minds had opened to truth that day when they had laughed together as one at the naked King in his red tie. Laughter opened the way for the Light of Truth to shine, and shine it did on and on and on.


THIS IS MINE by Rick Pascal London - 1926 Edith Chatsworth awoke with a start, her heart pounding as if attempting to escape from her delicate rib cage. Her thin silk nightgown was no match for the cold sweat that enveloped her fragile frame as she sat upright in bed, shivering. The words, “This is mine, and you can’t have it,” reverberated in her mind again and again. She clutched her ears endeavoring to block the ominous repetition. Only sitting still for a few more moments enabled her to silence the threat posed by the unknown sinister voice in her head. Her sudden movements startled her husband. “Are you all right, my darling?” he called. “It’s that dream again,” she responded. “I’m frightened, Henry.” Henry felt his wife’s slim frame tremble as he put his arms around her, offering comfort. “Try to relax, dear. It’s just another bad dream, that’s all.” “But, Henry darling, that’s the third time this week that I’ve heard that terrible voice. It must be some kind of warning. A bad omen, I’m sure.” “Don’t be foolish, Edith. There’s no such thing as a bad omen. That’s only superstition. Try to go back to sleep.” **** Lord Henry Chatsworth was a proper English gentleman, a graduate of Eton, and a noted archeologist whose explorations were financed by the British Museum. He glanced at the clothes in his leather suitcase and nodded approval. “That ought to do it,” he said, closing the lid and fastening the straps. “Are you finished packing yet, Edith?” “Almost, darling. Are you absolutely sure you want me to go with you? You know how I detest being near those sweaty, half-dressed men. They’re always staring at me, and they smell awful.” “Come now, Edith. It’s not that bad. Besides, the dry desert air in Egypt will be good for your asthma. The museum will provide for all our needs during the dig. The tents have fans, the cots will have soft mattresses, and they’re even providing carpets inside the tents so you won’t have to walk on the sand in your bare feet. We’ll have a cook who will prepare our meals and make sure you’ll have enough turmeric tea and ginger decoctions for your asthma. And there’ll be guards to protect us. So you see, darling, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got this all worked out. We’ll be back home in two weeks’ time. If all goes as planned, I’ll be the most famous archeologist in all of England; probably the world. “Nothing to worry about but that horrible voice in my head. I’m convinced that this trip is a bad idea.” “Stop it, Edith! I’ve told you time and again that there’s no such thing as an omen or superstition.” “All right, Henry. If you say so. I’m just about ready.” **** The two-day trip from London to the burial site of the Pharoahs in Saqqara, an hour’s drive south of Cairo, was uneventful. Edith read her favorite book, Henry Esmond by Thackeray, while Henry could only think of uncovering the tomb of Amenrajah and finding the fabled jeweled gold medallion given to him by his wife, Nefterami. No one knew for certain that the medallion even existed, but Henry believed it did, and that he would be the one to find it. It was rumored that the medallion had unknown magic powers and was entombed with Amenrajah in his sarcophagus. It was also rumored that Nefterami put a curse on anyone who attempted to steal the medallion from her husband’s tomb, which lay undisturbed for nearly 3,000 years. Henry and Edith settled into their tent as soon as they arrived in Saqqara late in the afternoon, just as the sun began to set. Their cook prepared a sumptuous meal for them, served outside their tent on a table set with a linen tablecloth, fine China dishes and silver utensils. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon accompanied the meal. “I don’t imagine you thought the desert would be this luxurious, did you, my dear?” Henry declared. “And the red wine is good for your asthma, too.” “I suppose you’re right, darling,” Edith sighed. “I just hope I can sleep tonight.” “Don’t worry, the desert air is good for you. You’ll be fine.” Tired after a long trip, and drowsy after finishing a bottle of wine, Henry and Edith went to bed soon after the sun set. Not long after they fell asleep, Henry was awakened by his wife’s wailing. “What is it dear? Are you all right?” he probed, reaching out for her. “It’s that horrible, terrible voice again,” she panted. “I can’t make it stop! It just keeps on saying, ‘ This is mine, and you can’t have it. ’ I’m petrified, Henry. Make it go away!” “There, there, Edith. It’s another bad dream, that’s all. It’s probably just being here in the desert that’s scaring you. But I assure you it will be all right. Take one of your sleeping pills; it’ll help you get back to sleep.” **** Henry and his excavation crew were out at the dig site just as the sun was rising. Edith’s pills helped, as she remained asleep long afterwards. When she finally awoke, she became aware of the excitement coming from the dig site. “What’s going on?” she asked the cook, who was getting her breakfast ready. “They seem to have made some discovery in the tomb,” he responded. “Everyone’s down there.” Without waiting for breakfast, Edith dressed quickly and ran to the dig site. “Where’s Henry?” she asked one of the diggers, recoiling and grimacing from his malodorous perspiration. “Is my husband in there?” “Yes, madam,” he replied, oblivious to the handkerchief she held over her nose. “He’s in the tomb.” Impetuously, without considering her asthma, Edith rushed inside, past other diggers, continuing to press the handkerchief against her nose. The smell of their perspiration, coupled with the mustiness and dust inside the tomb was overwhelming, provoking her asthma and causing her to gasp for air. She dared not venture more than two steps into the tomb fearing that she would no longer be able to breath. Standing on tiptoe, she strained to watch Henry pry open the sarcophagus and peer inside. He stood motionless, amazed at first, but the excitement of his discovery immediately became apparent. Edith could see the wonder in his eyes reflecting the flickering flame of the lantern held by the dig foreman. “Henry,” she shouted, “What have you found?” Henry continued to stare, enthralled at the mummified remains of Amenrajah. A golden chain around the mummy’s neck, stretching down to his chest, bore a magnificently crafted, golden jeweled medallion. “This is it!” Henry screamed. “I’ve got it at last. It’s real! It does exist!” He reached into the sarcophagus and wrapped his hand around the medallion. At the same moment, a rumbling was felt throughout the entire tomb. As if manipulated by a puppet master from above, the mummy’s arm emerged from its wrapping and raised its hand seizing Henry’s wrist with a vice-like grip. Its other hand sprung up and grasped Henry’s throat. A dark hole opened where the mummy’s mouth would be, expelling a most foul and putrid stench causing everyone near it to hold their noses and swoon. The walls of the tomb shook violently; the floor quaked and the ceiling began to crack. Sand and debris rained down from the ceiling. A loud, fierce, gravelly voice emanated from the dark hole in the mummy’s head and echoed off the walls: This is mine, and you can’t have it! Edith screamed and turned back toward whatever remaining daylight was visible through the dust and sand. Standing near the entrance, she was able to escape just as the sandstone ceiling crumbled and fell, burying everyone else. She collapsed outside the tomb’s doorway, which was now blocked by tons of sand and rock. She was taken back to the tent, unconscious, and transported to a hospital in Cairo where she remained in a catatonic state for another week before returning to a hospital in London. Doctors and psychiatrists attempted to get her to speak, but her silence remained unbroken. Edith sat in her hospital room, continuing to stare at the wall, as if focusing on some unseen being, her arms wrapped around an invisible object, clutching it tightly to her chest as if her life depended upon it. All she could utter was a single phrase that she repeated over and over: This is mine, and you can’t have it.


“Remember,” my father advised my 10-year-old self, “when it comes to your grandmother, you have to be the parent.” I had never been a parent before. How does a child supervise a 70-year-old? Can I ground her? Take her knitting needles away for a week? It was like having a younger sibling, not a grandparent. Grandparents are supposed to be loving and want to spoil their grandkids with cookies and candy. Instead, my grandmother, or “Granny D” as we called her, was a toddler with a driver's license. Bundled under the covers with a fever, fighting off an infection, I stayed home alone from school one day. Her sense of timing was impeccable to just so happen to ring the doorbell on the day someone would be home, unless my parents were feeling a bit feverish themselves and thought it would be a good idea to babysit one another. If so, they were very, very wrong. With her curly brown grandma perm she carried over her shoulder a colorful, oversized straw bag she went everywhere with because that’s how she snuck in her Chihuahuas, Patty numbers 1, 2, and 3, over the years. (Yes, she numbered and named all of her dogs “Patty”.) As I reluctantly climbed out of bed to open the door, she greeted me with an eccentric, “Hello!” I turned and headed toward the nearest place to lay down, the sofa, as she followed me in. For a minute you would have thought she was a regular grandma, concerned and wanting to pamper and nurse the sick child. She made a lot of fuss about how she was going to take care of me. But that’s where they get you. They fool you into thinking they’re sane just long enough for you to let your guard down. She scurried around as though looking for something and then popped out of the kitchen with a spray bottle filled with plain tap water. “Look at all these bugs!” she exclaimed as she went about the room spraying water into the air. “I don’t see any bugs, Granny D,” I replied. “Oh yes, there’s bugs everywhere! Let me get them sprayed and you’ll feel much better!” Then, as though the water had instantly vaporized all the “bugs” Granny D dropped the bottle and piped up, “I know what you need! Let’s go to the store!” I was really in no shape to be going anywhere and told her that. “Come on,” she insisted, “the fresh air will be good for you!” With my face pressed into the cushion I, again, denied her request. “I’ll buy you whatever you want!” she coaxed. At that, I decided maybe I could muster a little bit of energy. What would be the harm in a quick trip to the store, maybe get some soup and crackers, maybe a magazine, maybe something a little pricier... Wearing pajama pants and house shoes I buckled myself into the front seat of her sedan. As she started the car and put it into gear, she looked over at me and grinned. At that, you would've thought she turned into Ms. Frizzle from the “Magic School Bus” just as the school bus magically turns into a rocket ship and the Frizz shouts, “Wahoo!!” We, too, shot off like a rocket. This was no “Sunday Driving” Granny. She was making up for all those lost years she missed out not getting to be a Formula One driver. As we came to the upcoming red light at the first intersection she slowed down, and then kept right on driving. “Red light!!” I screamed. “Oops! Oh well, there was no one coming,” she laughed. She did that at every intersection as I clenched my eyes shut and held on for dear life. Fortunately, her destination wasn’t that far away. As she pulled into the parking lot, I realized the “store” she was talking about that would make me feel better and she would buy me whatever I wanted, was in fact, the fabric store. You know, for those knitting needles she needed taken away. I sat in the car, shivering and laying against the door as she skipped inside, little Patty number whatever tucked quietly inside her purse. She did keep a stash of cookies with her, but it wasn’t to give to her grandkids. She bribed Patty with cookies to get her to keep quiet so no one would know she had her inside a store. Not dog cookies, mind you, homemade people cookies that you would get your hand slapped if you tried to take. No, no, those were Patty’s precious Salted Caramel Chocolate Chip Delights. I dozed off and startled awake when she returned to the car. “You really missed a good time,” she said, “look at all this yarn I got on sale!” I un-amusedly nodded. “Listen, dear,” she added as she started the car, “when we get back will you show me how to use email?” I knew immediately that was a bad idea. Granny D didn’t even know how to turn on a computer, let alone use email. I once spent 45 minutes trying to explain to her the concept of scrolling. She couldn’t seem to understand that there was more to the page she couldn’t see, and much like a paper scroll, you had to scroll down the page. Somehow, we made it home alive. That evening, my parents were furious to discover she had taken me on her outing to get yarn and even managed to miss every single red light and stop sign we came across. How we didn’t get in a wreck or pulled over by police, I’ll never know, but that’s how Granny D went about life, she was invincible. She had a manic joy about her, and this crazy kind of likeability (or manipulation as my parents called it) that made people do whatever she wanted. She went about life with a carefree attitude, never worrying about what people thought or how she would get by. Growing up over the years Granny D pulled many more crazy stunts that were usually followed by “vacations” to the hospital because it meant Granny had stopped taking her medications. The doctors would adjust her meds and then release her back out into the world, until she stopped taking them again and she would repeat the process all over again. My parents didn’t know how to handle her and attempted to have her committed for good, but the doctors insisted that as long as she was stable on her medications and wasn’t going to harm herself or anyone else then she had to be released. Eventually, Granny D did get her license taken away from her. At least now she couldn’t harm anyone with her car, but she did still find ways to get around. By the time I was grown and Granny D was well into her 80s, my dad received a phone call from a Sheriff’s department in Arkansas. We didn’t know anyone in Arkansas, and it was over 600 miles away. A farmer had found Granny D in the middle of his wheat field sopping wet and dancing in the pouring rain. With no idea where she got the money, she had hopped a bus for Arkansas to “claim” some land she thought she owned. “She doesn’t own any land in Arkansas,” Dad told the deputy, “We have no ties to Arkansas whatsoever.” "Well, do you have anyone who can come get her?” “No, we can’t come get her! Every time someone calls me about her, I always tell them she needs to be committed! Just commit her already!” At that, he hung up the phone. I felt bad for my grandma. I had been raised and taught the importance of taking care of our elderly. But Granny D had burned all of her bridges. Of all of her kids, grandkids, and even distant relatives, there was no one left to bail her out of trouble anymore. Maybe someone else can help her now, I thought, or maybe now that I’m an adult I can see to it that she gets the care she needs. I can be the one person who doesn’t give up on her. She can live with me and I can make sure she takes her medication regularly. Maybe we can hire a nurse to visit regularly... My phone rang an unfamiliar tune. Incoming Video Call from: Dolores Dempsey. How the hell did she learn how to video call?! And where did she find a phone or computer?? I remembered my heroic plan to be the person she needed to take care of her until her final days. I placed my finger on the red icon and swiped, then went back to my day.


CHOO! CHOO! The locomotive whistles, a train’s usual high, but at the same time low sound, piercing the coal-smelling, dusty air as we take off down the tracks. We start out slow, then gain speed in the first thirty seconds. People are all around me, hoping we’ll get to Chicago for the Christmas Fair without any disturbances. I look out the window that I’m lucky to have a spot next to to see New York City’s brick buildings rushing past me. I can spot them in the distance as they're coming up, but they seem so far away. Yet before I know it, they’ve passed, and then they’re running away from me. They’ll probably be completely out of my sight in just a few seconds. Someone’s elbow jabs against my waist. A little kid bumps against my hips. A man starts smoking, releasing the noticeable smell of cigarettes into the already bad air. Like most people, I hate crowds- but I especially hate them in small spaces. It feels so tight, though the photos I’ve seen of train cars make them look open and airy. I’ve never been on a train before- I didn’t know what to expect. I go inside my cabin, grabbing today’s edition of the New York Times from it’s spot on a small desk before sitting on my bed and taking a look. The front-page article reads “Pearl Harbor Attacked by Japan, 2,403 Dead, we will be going into World War II”. What? I read the article, and then read it again, and again, and again, and again. Why did this happen? How did this happen? On the other side of the very un-soundproof walls of the cabin, I can hear that the other people have also heard the news, and they’re gossiping about what this means for our country. “We were so focused on the east, we forgot about the west.” “I still don’t think we should’ve joined that war.” “Will my husband have to leave to go fight? Will he come back?” It takes me a second to realize I’m now standing back in the crowded train car, with even more ruckus then before. Everyone is too busy talking, crying, revelating to notice anyone else. Five people are collapsed in a pile on the floor. No one cares about anyone else. Is this how life will be now? Everyone for themselves? Will we be safe? That’s definitely what lots of people think, going into their cabins. I’d do the same, but mine is in the same car as the crowd, and I want to get as far away as possible. That must be why I left my cabin. But I can’t remember it... everything is spinning too fast for me to even process what I’m doing. How did this happen? I figure I’d just thought the words again, but when everyone turns to face me I realize I’ve just said them aloud. No, I’ve yelled them. At the top of my lungs. So I go near the front of the train. I balance on the metal pole between the front cabin and the coal car until I’ve gotten to the center of it. I sit down, looking off into the distance. We haven’t even left New York yet- it’ll be a while before we reach Chicago. We’re definitely in the outskirts, though. Young boys are carrying papers and yelling, “READ ALL ABOUT IT, PEARL HARBOR HAS BEEN ATTACKED!” The streets are just as frantic as the train if not more, and this isn’t even the busiest area of New York. “You shouldn’t be here.” I nearly fall off, I’m so startled. I turn around to see a figure in all black, shoveling coal to fuel the train. They probably took a break from their work for a second to open the door, however. “Should I leave?” I ask. The coal worker raises their head to nod, and I get up. But at the last moment, they shake it. “It’s fine. I like the view too. You should enjoy the ride, not spend it with thirty people in a cramped space.” “Did you hear the news?” “About the new breed of hamsters those hikers discovered? Yeah.” Clearly they don’t know- unless they’re joking. But why would anyone want to joke about death and destruction- especially if it will surely lead to even more darker, scarier moments? How did this happen? “No,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “About Pearl Harbor.” “Where’s that?” “It’s in the island of Oahu, in Hawaii. I didn’t know about it either, until everything happened. It was bombed by Japan yesterday- it was in the paper, front page and everything. We’re going into the world war.” The coal worker stares. And stares. And stares some more. “Are you okay?” I ask. They shake their head. A strong gust of wind suddenly blows our way, and their hood flips over. I see a woman staring back at me. Black hair, skin a little darker than mine. She’s Japanese. But she’s innocent, too. Her life would probably be full of changes in the coming months, probably not for the better, and she dosen’t deserve any of it. “Oh,” I whisper. “Come sit with me.” “I probably shouldn’t. I need to fuel the train.” “This probably won’t be a long voyage anyway,” I inform her. “It’ll be canceled because of the...” I stop there. But she knows what I was going to say. Because of the war. This ride isn’t the only thing that’ll stop. Life will shut down as we know it. Nothing will be the same, maybe even after this is over. She bends down to sit next to me. “Okay- I guess I was a bit ahead with that coal. Though I’ll have to go back to work in a minute.” “The sunrise is pretty, isn’t it?” I ask as she’s sat down. “I’m sure if the air wasn’t so dusty from the train, I’d feel cool morning breezes.” We sit and watch as the train leaves New York City, heading west, though I know it’ll turn back whenever there’s a chance to do so. We run through some rolling fields, dotted with wildflowers, and soon we go into a lush forest, where I see a doe and her fawn rush off of the tracks to avoid us. It’s so natural. It’s what’s meant to be here, not war or bombings from foreign countries or crowded train cars. And for the whole time, one thing is on my mind- will this beautiful place live through the war?


Taking almost undistinguished breaths, her eyes squeezed closed, eyelashes pushing hard against her cheek , laying silently at the bottom of her pond. Nestled into the mud and leaves like a blanket. The cold stinging water a comfort that no one else understands. Each time she enters the dark waters it’s like a slap, short and sharp, leaving her skin tingling , the cold never really lifting. Like a salve against her day. Her fingers creep slowly out into the dark pushing through the mud, branches and the leaves , fingertips searching for the right one, unravelling the leaves and muck. Probing slowly feeling each stem, ridge and vein of the damp leaves. Is this the one ? Is this one painful enough? Tracing along the veins of the leaf does she remember the words she told herself? Are the words enough?will they bring the cold relief ? She needed the harshest of words, the coldest she remembers to bring her peace. The memory of his cheeky little grin, his tiny fingers reaching out and touching her belly, his adorable giggle his tiny blond head snuggling into her. It’s too much she can’t do his anymore. The love hurts more than any word could, any thought could. Even in the coldest part of her world she can feel that burning heat pressed against her, his love, white hot and unforgiving in its intensity, loving her and all her darkness and fear. Her ever searching fingers find what she needs and slowly she unravels the memories. The words. They sting when she lays them across the spot on her belly where his little fingers laid and had burnt through, soon the burning subsides and all she feels is the cold relief of nothingness. Numb. She doesn’t talk about her ritual. Why? So they can tell her it’s not normal? Not healthy? Or worse that she needs medication? They don’t understand. She’s is strong enough. This is her balance. She doesn’t want any pity. She doesn’t need any help. She just needs to be alone, sometimes. She needs the cold, the dark places she goes, she needs this to balance out the immense love that she endures each day. Why didn’t they tell her it would be so hard to be loved, cherished and needed so intensely. The hugs and the laughter of her perfect little family gently tickling every last happy nerve she had. She sits , smiles and laughs, absorbing all that love, and loves them more than she believed she ever could. But it hurts. And she needs the cold. So after all the smiles and love and goodnight kisses She lays down sinking slowly to the bottom of the pond she created searching for the cold dark comfort of her misery. She needs this. She feels too much. Tomorrow she starts again. Prepares for another day of battle. A silent warrior. She sinks further down into the cold and settles in to restore her strength.


Something I have always been. As in, my memory begins at the beginning of all, or at least my own memory of it. I have been since the earth was hot and turbid. I have been since the great beasts roamed and stomped their way across the new land. I have always been. I have been since your species wore fur. I discovered you while you were still small, tiny creatures scrabbling about in the mud. Perhaps I was growing tired of eating the little scrabbling creatures and you looked like a novel snack. I snatched you up and I haven’t looked back. I take no pleasure in eating you, you do taste good and meet my needs, but I take no pleasure in the kill. I don’t fiddle around with you. I kill to eat. You used to have sounds to describe my presence, small squeaks that evolved into grunts. Eventually you gave me a name, I don’t recall what it was. I did delight in the concept of a name though, nothing had ever had a name, you invented them. You used to tell your young stories and warn them about my presence. I was the dark. There were many other creatures that made you their meals as well. Large cats and bears, sometimes you killed and ate each other. That always left you with a strange flavour I didn’t care for. I often moved on to another group when you began to turn on each other. I was very amused when you began to make up stories of invisible friends to explain your misfortune and misdeeds. You couldn’t accept the true nature and cruelty of existence, you gave pain and suffering a personality, disease became a punishment. I could never understand why you continued to hurt each other, and blamed invisible forces, saying you were called by your “gods” to hurt one another. I often became sickened by your treatment of your young. They were often the ones sent into the darkness to placate your gods. Certainly not me. The young hold no nutrition, small and lean. My intentions were not to torture or harm you, but one must eat to survive. My meals became easier when your numbers grew. You fought and killed each other over territory and shiny rocks you seem to think hold value. You piled into towns and crammed yourselves together for fear of me. The hairs still rose on the backs of your necks when I crouched nearby. Your cities became cesspools and disease ran rampant. Those were lean years for me. Although your dead lay in the streets the fetid stench of rotting flesh drove me away into the wild. I fed on the old foods, the creatures you forgot about, you called them fairy tales. I wandered around this earth for many years leaving when your wars became unbearable. My hunting ground grew smaller as you razed the forests in the name of progress. The earth was dying and your progress and technology ate the air and water, the earth began to fester. Ever so often a plague would knock back your enormous numbers. The creatures and I could no longer hunt you safely. My contribution barely scratched the surface of your rampant breeding. You breed so often that you could not feed or care for your young. The young ones died in the name of your animal urges. It still disgusts me. Your species has such knowledge, but no self control. You’ve forgotten my name now. Your stories no longer include mine. You may think, are you the devil? No, you made him up to explain away your hate and misdeeds. Nor am I the vampire, wearwolf, wendigo, or ghost. Those are just more stories to rationalize your diseases and disorders, from before a time you knew about the tiny ones. Yes, I have long known about your “bacteria” and viruses, we old ones have knowledge from millions of years of wandering. I still hunt. I take from the edges of your cities, only what I need. You don’t notice. Someone simply vanishes, never found. I never waste a morsel. I grow weary. The air tastes of poison and the water burns my mouth. I still walk in the darkness. A small part of your ancient brain recognizes my presence. It raises the hairs on your neck and a feeling of dread passes over you, you call it a “gut feeling”. It’s a memory from a time where you knew my name. You still do, some of you hear a whisper in the wind, and hear my name. They call you “mentally ill”. I watch you, you could be dangerous. If the others start to listen to your call, it could result in my capture. I whisper in the ears of your children, they wake from their sleep with screams. I warn them about the dark, not me, but others of your species that lurk there, predators. You seem to allow the torture and pain of your own kind, the animals and I watch in horror. We are hungry. I am the only one of my kind, I am an anomaly. I have no name I call myself. I have always been, and shall always be,in the darkness. I continue to feed on your putrid flesh. I wait for the day you change into something else, something aware, maybe closer to my own awareness. I am here, in your darkness. You’ve forgotten my name.