Crossing Paths Xiù Wáng is seated at her desk, which is piled high with textbooks and notebooks. Her marketing textbook is open in front of her, and it is brimming with ideas that will only serve to stoke her desire to launch a content creation company. Her phone started buzzing loudly, interrupting her thoughts. Xiù looked down to see that her mother was calling. Realizing that she had never heard from her parents after telling them a few years ago that she intended to study in the United States, she could feel her heart racing. She answers her phone with a nerve-wracking voice, "Hello, Mama,” as she taps her pen on the desk, not knowing what her mother will say next. “Xiù, you know what we expect of you,” her mother said, her tone firm yet loaded with cultural norms. “I cannot let you waste away your future for foolishness, nor can your father. return home, get married, and have a family. That's what lies ahead for you.” Xiù grips her phone tighter after hearing those words: “You can't just tell me to give up on my ambitions, Mama; I have to pursue my passion, which is marketing. I can make a career out of it since I'm good at it. Please make an effort to comprehend.” The call ended abruptly, leaving Xiù with an ultimatum hanging over her head like a dangling sword and no answer from the other end. In mid-March, Xiù goes to Tampa, Florida, for spring break with her friends, hoping to take a break from her family's expectations and her college coursework. She finds momentary solace from her problems in Florida's warmth, the beaches--especially her favorite, Clearwater Beach--the saline breeze, and the lively vitality. At a neighborhood cafe next to Clearwater Beach, one of the most well-known beaches in Tampa, Florida, Xiù Wáng finds herself in the center of the metropolis, where the sun shines on a bustling urban area and the blue waters of the beaches sparkle beneath the sky. The cafe she is at is called “Art Smart Coffee Gallery." This unique art cafe displays art for visitors in addition to serving coffee and pastries. The enticing local artwork adorning the quaint cafe's window walls draws Xiù in. It speaks to her like a foreign language and consists of textures, colors, and unsaid stories. Xiù was engrossed in the local artwork, particularly the oil painting of the boat, and was unaware that a young man was watching her from a corner table. Her medium-black hair is pushed behind her ears as she examines the textures and artwork. The young man, Jose Iglesias, was dressed casually and drinking hot chocolate while making notes in his leather journal. His dark brown eyes would occasionally dart toward Xiù as an indication of his admiration for her beauty and grace. Finally, he gathered his courage within himself and went straight up to Xiù with a warm, friendly smile. “"Hello, My name is Jose Iglesias. I noticed you're looking at the oil painting of the boat paint job," he said. "Oh, hello there. Xiù Wang is my name. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Xiù smiled after initially being shocked. “Yes, I do think oil paintings are more vibrant than other mediums since they create such flawless artworks by bringing the colors that flicker to life and providing us with textures. I can almost picture this painting of a sunset outside my dorm window at my university of higher education in North Dakota. I will admit, though, that it is a little bit warmer here.” She replied with a smile. Our main characters go to a table in a corner that is seated for two. Xiù and Jose sit across from each other and continue their conversation from there. “Tampa is where I was born and raised. So what brought you to Tampa, Florida? I'm assuming you're here for spring break, just like me. I came here to explore more, spend time with friends, and enjoy the beaches.” He gives her a curious smile and lifts his right eyebrow. Xiù nods and responds, "Yeah, I'm on spring break." Several of us determined that Florida would be our final destination. Minutes flew by, and then hours passed, and it just seemed like they knew each other from their past. They exchanged stories, and there was laughter. Their connection just grew in the deepest moment of the evening. “So you're a student at North Dakota State University? Which degree program are you enrolled in?” He asks with curiosity. "My degree is in marketing. With my degree, I hope to start my own content production business. I also intern for a local content producer who runs her own business and is imparting some knowledge to me. I enjoy it, even though it requires a lot of work. How about you?” She responds excitedly. Before Jose could answer, a waiter comes up and tells them this: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just letting you two know that we’ll be closing up in 20 minutes as it is almost 10:30 pm,” and Jose replies politely, “Thank you; we’ll be out soon.” The waiter walks away, and Jose starts to respond to Xiù’s earlier question, “Sorry. I am impressed with your plan after college,” he says, seeming impressed, and then continues, “My field of study at the University of Florida is communications. I enjoy how conversation can unite individuals and allow them to share their experiences, as you and I are currently doing.” “That is a great field of study, and I know you will do great in that area.” She says this while looking at him proudly. Reluctantly, Xiù looks at the time on her phone and realizes that she must be heading home because it is at that time and it is late. Jose asked for her phone number in case he wanted to have contact with her. “Call me or text anytime. I enjoyed our conversation.” He grins and starts walking home. She hails for a taxi out in the humid weather of Florida. As she gets in the taxi, her phone rings in her handbag, and her mind runs to think, "Already, Jose? " She smiles as she grabs her phone, but it's not. Surprisingly, it's her mother again, considering they had not talked before spring break and the ultimatum her mother left her. “You only have this once, Xiù. Otherwise, we'll cut you off. Return home and fulfill our family's expectations.” The voice of her mother resounded with finality. Xiù heard these words many times, but this time they hit her like a clash of symbols in her ears, and when those words hit her ears, her eyes welded with tears. Her personal aspirations collided brutally with the weight of cultural obligations. The taxi arrived at her friend's appointment, and the driver said to her, “We are here.” Xiù got out of the taxi and thanked the driver. She walked carefully to her friend's apartment door and turned the knob, still feeling heavy from her mother's words. She slung into an armchair and thought about the future: What could she do? "How could she possibly give up her dream and yet lose all respect for her family?” Then, recalling a previous chat in which he had discussed a similar issue that he was still going through, she considered messaging Jose about her predicament in the hopes that he might provide some perspective. She reached for her phone in her bag and texted Jose, “Hey, its Xiù,” and she set her phone on the side table to wait for an answer. When she did that, she went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and when that happened, her phone chimed, and it was Jose answering, “Hey! What’s up?” Xiù explained her dilemma, told him that she had no idea what to do, and asked for his perspective. “Why don't you and I meet up tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. at the same cafe, and we'll establish a strategy about how we will address our family's dilemmas?” Jose texted her to let her know that, while he wishes he had an answer right away, he doesn't. Xiù is sipping her water when she looks at her phone and finds Jose's message. She is relieved to learn that he is eager to assist in coming up with a strategy. She texted him back, “Sounds good to me; I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 am. Thanks, Jose.” Then she heads to bed. The next day, Xiù shows up early to the cafe after that. The calm streets were bathed in a warm, golden hue as the sun was just starting to rise over the horizons. Located between a small ice cream shop and a bookstore, the gallery cafe was well-known for its artisanal coffee and varied paintings. She flung the door open, letting in the fragrance of freshly cooked pastries. She selected a corner table and placed her coffee order. She sat at the table near the window, which viewed the ocean and the breaking waves on the beach. She couldn't stop thinking about the next chat, hoping that today's discussion would provide her with the explanation she needed. A waitress approached with her coffee order, a cappuccino with a touch of cinnamon. Xiù thanked her for delivering it to her and sipped her cappuccino while looking at the watch on her wrist. It was two minutes until ten. Jose arrived at exactly 10 a.m. His wavy brown hair bounced with each stride, giving his image a carefree charm. His face appeared lighthearted and exciting due to the loose ringlets framing it. He spotted Xiù seated at a little corner table, and he walked up to the table with a casual ease that conveyed confidence and receptivity. "Hey, Xiù," he said, his warm tone instantly putting her at ease. "How are you doing?" Xiù sighs and answers, “I’m alright for now. I just want to figure out a plan with my family.” Jose nodded with understanding. "I hear you. We'll make a plan together, but why don't we go for a walk on the beach for a change of scenery and some fresh air?" he suggests. “That sounds great. I could use some fresh air and a change in scenery.” She smiles at his suggestion. They left the cafe and walked to Clearwater Beach, which was a short distance away. As they went down the coastline, the Florida wind caught Xiù's medium black hair, causing it to flutter over her face, prompting her to pull it up into a ponytail. As their talk progressed, the sound of the waves and the salty breeze helped her feel more at ease. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I want to respect my family, but I don’t want to give up my independence and dreams,” Xiù began while looking out at the ocean. Jose nods understandingly. “I understand. It's difficult to match their expectations with our own personal goals. We need to find a way of upholding our family's wishes without losing ourselves in the process.” “You’re right. I just have no idea where to start.” Xiù nodded, feeling a sense of connection and comprehension. “How about we write a list of our goals and our parents' expectations of us?" Jose suggested, with determination coming from his deep brown eyes. “From the list, we can look for some common ground on how to compromise.” They found a space on the beach, and Jose took out his leather journal and began taking notes. When they completed writing down their notes, they discovered that their family's expectations were crucial, and there were areas of their own desires that they could assert without generating too much difficulty. “Your parents want you to return home, get married, and start a family. That is what they want or expect of you.” Jose pointed it out. “However, if you do not want that right immediately, you might just return home and have an open chat with them about your personal goals and how you intend to fulfill their cultural standards in the future.” Xiù nodded, feeling more hopeful. “I could do it. And, regarding your family's condition, let them know that while you respect their desire to take over the family business to aid them, this is not your road to take and that you have another one to pursue.” As they continue to discuss, Xiù feels a ray of optimism and a burden lifted off her shoulders. With Jose's help and the approach they devised, she felt confident about confronting her family with an open discussion about expectations and personal goals. “Thank you, Jose.” She smiled as she spoke. "I greatly appreciate your assistance in all of this. I'm feeling a lot better now, thanks to you.” “Anytime, Xiù." Jose replied, his brown locks framing his face, and smiled back. “I’m glad that we both were able to figure out a plan.” Both Jose and Xiù return with a renewed sense of dedication, the sea as their witness, and the wind at their backs, welcoming a fresh outlook on the future.


Click. “That oughta do it. Nervous?” “More than you can guess,” Aichen admits. He tugs on the restraints at his wrists. “These have to be so tight?” “Part of the safety protocol.” The computerized voice is warm, almost human. It’s been programmed with perfect attention to colloquial speech, but it still lacks a proper bedside manner. The questions it asks are never followed up. Is he nervous? Yes. No. It doesn’t matter how he answers. “So if I win--” he begins. “--I’m not programmed with that information.” Two beady eyes blink behind a flat screen, which twists to meet his gaze. That’s as close as the programmers could come to successfully mimicking physical mannerisms in a human conversation. No matter how he turns, the screen will follow him. “Great.” Undercover mission or not, Aichen didn’t sign up for this. His superiors will be hearing his complaints--if he lives. “Throw me in then. I’m as ready as I’ll get. The longer I wait, the worse this feels.” “You’ll wait until your allotted time.” Blasted thing. “Your partner hasn’t been decided.” Aichen stands from his patient bed and investigates the window on the far wall. From here, he can barely make out the roaring coliseum. There’s a crowd from floor to ceiling and there’s no telling how far up the ceiling goes. It’s impossible to guess at this angle. “This isn’t some en masse fight to the death or something, is it?” Aichen wonders, hands pressed to the glass. After being captured, he’d been told absolutely nothing. It started in a cell, then he was being led down this hallway, and now he’s stuck in this room. His only mission detail was: get captured . What could be so important inside those anti-gravity walls? He won’t have much chance for recon. “Await your time, prisoner...1227894-4-4-4....” “122789435,” Aichen finishes for it. “You’d think they could afford functioning ‘bots with the high bets they get here.” He briefly glances at the bot, who’s makeshift face is a blaze of expressions, and sighs. Buzz. “Guess it’s finally my turn.” Approaching the sealed door, Aichen mentally prepares his first encounter with the chamber. Recon, then fight. And in a worst-case scenario, gather his bearings before proceeding. But he’s seen anti-gravity before. He’ll be fine. Bang! His body jolts forward. The roars erupt. And then he’s plummeting. Where’s the anti-gravity? For a fear-invoking moment, he just falls. Air whooshes past him, billowing through his tunic, ruffling through his hair. A hand grips his ankle. “Get it together!” the shout is audible, even over the deafening thrum of people, machines, and fear. Hovering above him is a woman as well-lived as the council. Aged ones are rare. “Check the bonds.” As Aichen flails to grab his wrist, she drops him. Two blurred figures clash with her. She blocks. Parries. Counters. Her form is pristine. She must be aged. Aerial combat is no longer sought after. The academies deemed it archaic. It and every other form of combat. That’s why he had to find a teacher. “Focus,” Aichen whispers to himself. His eyes waiver over the wrist binds until he sees it. Ripping a circular tab up from the forearm, he gives it a twirl, then shoves it back in. His body jolts. Like a crescent hand, an air current forces him back up the clear shaft. It forces his gaze onto the woman and her plight. She kicks one of the figures away and sinks her fingers into the other. Pieces of them scatter, framing the air around her. Click. Aichen whirls to meet the sound at the very base of the chamber. And then it begins to fill. A liquid floods beneath them. Water? Aichen’s never seen water before. But the frothy blue could be nothing else. He stops. The crescent releases him, leaving him dangling near the very height of the chamber. But the water is rising. Clank. Clank. Clank. A rhythmic clatter before the full vacuum. He holds his breath. His heart pounds. His eyes clamp shut. The vacuum overwhelms him, water filling in over his head. Soft at first, another beat. Then, from the all-consuming liquid, the beat spreads. Bang. Bang. Bang. Though soft on the ears, it vibrates through him. He hazards a peek. The aged woman is nowhere to be seen. But those two figures are approaching him. Fast. With an unplanned weave backward, his hands hit the glass. One figure eases a hand over his throat, the other threatens with razor teeth. Aichen’s limbs are heavy. How did his ancestors move in water? How did they swim ? Panic sets in. “Oy!” the woman’s voice echoes in his head. And theirs too, apparently. They both turn to meet her. Two thin talons puncture the tips of each finger. She strikes. A flurry of movement. A feline cry. Then two screams as they dissolve. “They’ll be back.” Her words are filtering through a throbbing bubble. It fluctuates with every word, every breath. “This is a team event?” While Aichen usually prides himself on asking astute questions, this isn’t one of his best moments. And here, under the water, the drowned sound of his voice causes the words to sound even less intelligible. “Swim.” She ignores Aichen, drawing him toward the surface. “You may not understand the feeling. But you’re drowning.” They breach the waterline. And Aichen gasps. His chest is burning. His nose, too. But with the air, the weight of his limbs lessens. “I can’t swi--” “--I know. The academy never trains ‘em right these days.” Her grip on him holds. But her gaze is less loyal. She’s surveying the landscape beneath them, the crowd threatening to break through the chamber, and the ceiling. “No, I’m no--” “--Save it, embboy. You’re an incarnation of academy regulations.” She gestures at his feet. “Any hidden weapons in those boots?” He ignores her. “There’s nothing wrong with being born ,” he grumbles. “Being of embryonic cells is preferable to whatever you are.” For a brief moment, the woman meets his judging glare. The bubble at her mouth squirms against her frown. “Are you one of those tube babies ? A biobot ? Or maybe you were one of the original crafted ?” He knows he’s digging his own grave, but he can’t stop the onslaught of insults from tumbling over his teeth. “Do you have something against crafted ?” “No,” he’s quick to recover. “No, I’ve just never met one.” She eyes him a moment longer, before glancing away. Deep in the water, the figures are easing toward them. They don’t have time for this. Diving beneath the water, the aged woman takes hold of his boot. She rips the laces free. And the knife beneath them. The other boot is short to follow. “Wield this,” she orders him as she resurfaces. “Fine.” He reluctantly takes the blade. And then he’s sinking. Rapidly. Two billowing claws climb his legs. They rip. They shred. They slice through his skin. And he swings aimlessly. The knife strikes once. And the figure recoils. It screams with a growing wound, which festers and spreads. It’s skin dissolves. Again. The water recedes. From above him, the aged woman lunges. She catches Aichen by his belt. Then herself on the wall. “The trials are quick. You have to keep up.” Thrusting him onto the wall, she points with her head. “Each scenario is different. But the goal never changes. Kill those things, survive.” “Right.” He can do that. Gurgle. The water drains beneath them. A harsh moment. A long moment. His heart’s deafening him in anticipation. His hands are clammy. But nothing happens. “They can take a moment to transition,” she admits under her breath. “I guess we can catch our breath,” he jokes. He isn’t sure she even has breath. If elders are rare, the crafted are inconceivable. They had died out decades ago, along with the other elders. And for good reason, at least, that’s what he’d been told. Dangerous, unpredictable, unstable, and horrific. Not one positive descriptor had ever been used to describe them. He resists the urge to stare at her. “What’s coming next?” His question drifts beneath the mechanical engine that erupts beneath them. The hatches open. There’s creaking joints, the rattle of movement, and a heavy hiss. But above that, a black mass scaling up the wall towards them. “The air, the water. I could handle those. You’re afraid of biosects ?” “What?” Aichen looks down at the mass. “I--I...” “I’ll handle this one. Climb,” the woman lowers herself. Among the mass, two shadowy figures surge. It’ll end if he kills one and she kills the other. Closing his eyes, he lets go. As he falls, he raises his knife. “No!” Her shout bursts his eyes open. The shadow has moved. Beneath him, there are only biosects. “Throw it. Throw it!” Before he hits the ground, Aichen releases the dagger. Mid-air, their daggers graze each other. That soft touch is enough to guide his. Screams. Aichen flattens to the floor. No biosects. No shadows. “Stand, hurry.” The woman is already beside him, gathering both daggers. Looping a hand under his arm, she lifts him to his feet. The wail of a siren. Pounding from the opposite side of the chamber. Cheering. “It’s not over yet.” “M-more fears?” Aichen wonders. He squints at the crowd, wondering how they find enjoyment in this. They wouldn’t if they were the ones down here. No, they’d be begging for mercy and dying one by one. “Two unknowns, one fear.” “So then it should be over.” “Yours are. Mine aren’t,” her eyes scan the chamber. “The unknowns could be anything. But if you understand them, then I need you to--” The words are sealed into her mouth by a thin thread. Alarmed, Aichen tries to reassure her. But he can’t. His lips clap together. The thread is quick. Once finished, it pounces from his mouth to his eyes. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Wings? No. Electricity. A hand encloses in his. But the touch is gone as soon as it arrives. His dagger is all that remains. He tightens his fingers on it. This is something he’s been trained for. Bending both knees, Aichen assumes a proper dagger-stance. He can hear the woman’s breath to the left. But to the right, a whoosh. He swings. The blade connects. And then she’s screaming. “Elder?!” he shouts. He approaches her. One arm as his guide, he interprets the situation. She’s on her knees. The figure has her by the hair. Digging his fingers into what should be the figure’s eye sockets, Aichen thrashes back. The knife moves with him. A sickening, fleshy sound tells him he hit. Light filters back through his vision. But the woman is lying on the ground. Blood has stained the floor around her shivering form. “Hey,” he whispers, dropping to her side. “Hey!” His hands cup her wrinkled cheeks. “Please. I need your help.” “Wrap it,” her voice barely passes her pale lips. Aichen tears the fabric from his shirt, peeling it into a long thin scrap. “My shoulder.” He heaves her into his lap, securing the fabric around her chest and shoulder. It’ll have to do. Another failing of the academy. No medical practice. “Give me the other knife,” Aichen tells her. “No.” She shakes her head. “ Give me the other knife!” he barks. “I’m not dead. We’ll finish this together.” Before Aichen can argue further, the lights cut. Her unknowns are all visibility related. Will her fear be as well? Electricity hisses up the chamber walls. In an arcing coil, a blue spark alights. The back of his neck tingles. This is an unknown for him, too. He has no experience with live electricity. It’s an issue of the past. The coil rotates inward. With increasing speed, it lurches in at them. He pulls her beneath him. “I can take it,” he promises. Engulfing her small frame in his body, he absorbs the shock. It rattles him. In his every nerve. In the deep, squirming organs. In his instantly nauseated stomach. His teeth chatter. And he groans. Saliva foams through the corner of his lips. But in the soft glow, he sees them. Against the increasing pain, he brandishes his knife. The figure flits in and out of view. But its location is constant. Are they testing his timing? Without a second thought, he hurls it. The knife passes through at first. But the figure returns just as the blade seeks to exit. And its eyes bulge. “Give me the knife,” he sounds the words out through pained whimpers. He’s passing out. The electricity is only gaining in strength. The once aching tingle is now a violent jolting. “No.” Her hand flicks out. He watches the blade spiral into the darkness. And then he’s free. The blue crackle releases him. The lights flicker back on. And the chamber erupts with applause. But he’s still vibrating. Regardless of his freedom, he’s suffering. Hugging himself with both arms, he attempts to still the trembling. But it’s not just his body that’s shuddering, it’s his eyes as well. Even if he calms his body, he can barely see anything. “Don’t move too suddenly,” the woman rests a hand on his shoulder. “You could be injured.” “It’s fine”--he jerks out of her touch--“If we’re going to get out of here, I need to know. What’s your fear?” He isn’t one who likes to be doted on. He never has. Joining the academy was a way for him to prove his worth, not to be protected like a child. As it is, they prepared him to handle worse shocks than that. “You’ll see.” “No. Tell me. Now.” He pushes to stand but falters. The knife is too far out of reach. He has to get to it before the next test begins. Dragging himself across the floor, he strains his fingers out for it. Snap. His fingers crunch under her boot. He withholds the scream, even through the throbbing. He’s in enough pain now. It’s all numbing. The woman bends to retrieve his knife. “That.” Her voice comes from behind him. Oh. “You’re afraid of yourself?” he confirms. The woman above him grins. Knife in hand, she dives for him. He rolls. Catching her leg in both hands, he rips her to the ground. They tumble. They wrestle. But she manages to gain the high ground. From the corner of his eye, he can see the real woman facing a similar fate with another version of herself. This is the last one. The last one. Tightening his fingers into the woman’s striking wrist, he leans forward. His teeth clamp down on her nose. His jaw holds firm, even though the rest of his body is wavering. She claws his cheek. Those metal points in her fingers are identical to the real woman’s. But he doesn’t let up. Blood seeps from her face. Her grip loosens on the blade. And Aichen rips it free from her hands. He delves it deep into her throat. Click! Hiss! Plumes of smoke fill the chamber. The crowd disappears as the screens stop projecting. The sound of them fades with it. The duplicate bodies of the elder woman glitch until they’re nothing but training dummies. Including the one atop Aichen. It flops, weighing him down to the floor; nothing more than a sand-filled human-shaped sack. “You’re certainly resilient.” The elder woman stares down at him. The messy, silver tresses that were once tangled into a bun are now sleek and straight at her shoulders. Her dirty, torn tunic and pants have slimmed into an ankle-length, black pantsuit. The tattered shoes are nothing but bare feet. “And considerate.” “I was trained to b--” “--Oh, certainly not. You may look regulation, however, you’re anything but. The agents before you left me to die; the ones who made it that far. After all, they still won without me. But you never assumed that to be true--” she kneels beside him, her lips to his ear--“Embboy, who really trained you?” Aichen doesn’t answer. His mission was to get captured, but now he’s wondering who issued it. And who she really is. Like all aged, is she part of the council? If so, he has no reason to talk. He refuses to have a reason. They were the ones who drove him to join the academy. Fighting them was the only thing keeping him alive after... “Twelve,” she calls out. “Commander?” a familiar face enters the room. Aichen’s eyes widen. “Weldler?!” Aichen exclaims the name before he can stop himself. “122789435.” Weldler bows to Aichen in greeting. He then returns to the elder woman. His bow only deepens. “W-Weldler.” Aichen’s voice softens. They’d lost Weldler nearly a year ago. He’d gone undercover and never returned. But those with him couldn’t remember what happened. They just labeled him MIA and the higher-ups dismissed any requests for rescue. “What can I do for you, Commander?” Weldler prompts the elder woman when she doesn’t instruct him. Gaining a soft grin, she rests a hand down on Aichen’s head. A pat. Two. Then she strokes his bangs from his forehead. “Prepare 122789435’s new living quarters. Oh, and change his file name to Aichen . I will send him to be escorted shortly.” She dismisses Weldler, who leaves without a second thought, or a second glance. Her fingers trace down Aichen’s cheek before resting under his chin. “Your mentor won’t be able to hide from me for long. See. I’m eager to unravel your mind, Agent Aichen Lurch. All too eager.” She stands with abrupt grace and snaps for another man standing at the door. “He’s ready.”


Lan’iell swam as if his life depended on it. And, in a way, it did. Life as he knew it, anyway. One might say the situation was one of his own making; after all, he hadn’t had to respond to the princess’s rather blatant flirting, at least not beyond the bounds of a few proper sentences and a polite, but firm, refusal. As the youngest son of a lowly viscount, it’s not like he would ever be considered a match for the king’s only daughter anyway. Which was actually more than okay with Lan. The princess was, admittedly, gorgeous, but shallow and petty and not at all someone he could see sharing a home with, much less a marriage bed. (Or even a pre-marital bed, despite his reputation at court. He’d only been out in society for two years, but already had something of a reputation.) He breached the surface, gasping for air and taking a quick look around to get his bearings. No one was in sight, and he breathed a quick “thank you” to his childhood swimming instructor, who had insisted, since theirs was an island kingdom, that he should be able to swim well enough to escape a shark, if need be. Escaping from other things was a side benefit. Coast clear, he veered west, heading for shore. Twenty minutes later, he’d made it to shore. It was rocky here, and it took a moment for him to navigate his way to dry land. Once he did he took a moment to stretch and look around. Still clear. Good. The shore was wooded here, the treeline growing to a few hundred yards of the shoreline. Great for cover, not so much for navigation, and he studied the forest as he thought. There was a reason he’d cultivated his reputation. Part of it was that he was something of a natural flirt, and good-looking enough to attract attention- tall, with his father’s dark hair and his mother’s jade green eyes. Lan wouldn’t call himself classically handsome, not in the way some of the favorites at court were, but he was lean and muscled, a love of swordplay evident in powerful arms and shoulders. If he’d wanted to, he could have cut quite a swath through the court ladies. Too bad it wasn’t the ladies he was interested in. Picking a path that seemed to head in the direction he wanted to go, he headed inland. The ship he’d escaped from had probably gone back to port at this point. Lan’iell felt a small stab of pity for the guard that had been supposed to be keeping watch on him. It wasn’t the guard’s fault that he’d made a number of friends among the palace security force during his time at court, nor was there any way for the poor fellow to have known that one of his colleagues had taught him how to break out of shackles (in exchange for a small favor of the matchmaking sort) after a similar... misadventure. Eventually, Lan’iell’s feet brought him to a small clearing. There wasn’t anything terribly special about it, if you discounted the ring of guards trying (and failing) to hide in the surrounding trees. Lan had spotted at least four in the last half hour. He snorted. City boys. It was easy enough to slip through the ring. Even easier, since the one guard who’d actually spotted him had studiously pretended Lan was merely a squirrel. It was far from the first time this particular situation had arisen, after all, and he restrained a chuckle as he reached the edge of the clearing. Before him was a small encampment- a fairly nice tent, campfire with something tasty-smelling cooking over it, a couple of chairs, and a pair of blankets laid out, close enough to the fire to be warm but far enough it would be hard to see them from the edges of the clearing. Lan had very fond memories of those blankets. Standing by the fire, stirring the cookpot, stood a figure, and he took a moment to stare appreciatively as the other spoke. “Took you long enough. Dinner’s almost ready.” “Sorry, love. Your father’s men were more persistent than usual. I had to go a little further than planned to lose them,” Lan said easily, moving into the firelight and wrapping his arms around the figure’s waist. The other squirmed. “You’re still damp. Go change. There are dry clothes in the tent.” “Why? You’ll be taking them off soon enough.” That earned him a swat with the spoon, and he chuckled. “So violent, your highness. Is this how you treat all your subjects?” “Only the ones who stir up family drama. Do you have any idea how long it took my sister to stop screaming after that little stunt you pulled? Father was pissed. You’re lucky the guards gave up. If they’d caught you and brought you back he probably would have made you marry her just to shut her up.” The prince turned in the circle of his arms, wrapping his arms around his taller paramour and pulling him down for a kiss. Lan leaned into the kiss for a moment, then pulled back with a rueful shake of his head. “Not exactly what I was going for. Guess I won’t be welcome back at court for a while, huh? Too bad. I was just starting to get good at sneaking into your chambers, too.” The prince snorted, pulling away to check the stew. “Yeah right. You’re lucky you’ve done such a good job charming my retinue. You’re a rogue, but stealth is not your thing, love. Stick with what you’re good at, we’ll all live longer.” That put a damper on the mood. What they were doing was technically illegal and extremely ill-advised. “Darling...” “ Stop. ” The word was short and clipped, the prince’s voice a mix of warning and resigned. “I know what you’re going to say. And, if I were my brothers, or even my sister, this would be a problem.” The prince lifted the stewpot, setting it on a convenient stump. “I”m seventh in line, and my eldest brother’s wife is pregnant. If it’s a boy, it’ll more or less knock me out of the running entirely. My father could care less who I marry, or even if I marry, and he’s known of my preferences for years now. If his advisors weren’t all old and too conservative for anyone’s good, he’d be the first to approve of this. Your father is one of his oldest friends, after all.” “I know,” Lan said with a sigh. “Alright, I’ll be good.” “I highly doubt that. But come eat.” Lan’iell laid back, sandwiched between two warm cotton blankets, his royal lover curled tightly into his side and snoring lightly. It was a gorgeous night, and he stared up at the night sky, letting the stars' peace creep into his soul. Tired as he was, sleep would not come lightly; his mind was too busy chewing over what the prince had said earlier. Marriage. Maybe. Someday. Until then, I’ll take what I can get. You’re more than worth it, my prince.


Lying in the cold darkness of an empty room, I didn’t want to get up, there was no point! How many times can you get knocked to your knees before you just stayed down in the muck? This wasn’t who I was, or at least it’s not who I used to be, but here I am knocked down again, all in the name of Love. You see I have yearned for love, hunted it, tried to create it, and all to no avail. The rational side of my brain says to forget it and become the type of guy that I cannot stand. You know the one, the guy who uses women for one thing, treats them like trash, and just moves on, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. “Get that out of your head Jake,” I growled to myself, rising out of bed to start my day. Sandra had been everything to me. She was beautiful, spirited, and had brought excitement and joy to my life. We had lived together for two years yesterday, when she moved out with all of my furniture. I should have paid more attention to the signs that were right in front of me though. The questioning looks I would get when I started working night shifts and the cold meals left in the fridge, if there was anything left at all. Then the “girls' nights” started with a group of her college friends on my only nights off. I knew it was coming, but I chose not to see it; like a fool I was blinded by what I thought was love. Walking to the window I pushed the towel to the side to let the harsh brightness of the sun into the room. I still can’t believe she took the blinds when she left! Closing my eyes, I let the warmth and light envelope me, then the tingling started, like pin pricks across my skin. I had never told anyone why I worked nights, but it all started after Sandra moved in. We had gone to the river for a canoe trip where I got a horrible sunburn. After that, my skin always reacted the same way to direct sunlight; a slight tingle that intensified into excruciating pain. “Polymorphic sun poisoning,” the dermatologist called it. “It’s hard to say what caused it. I’m sure that severe sunburn didn’t help matters any, but it’s just something that you will have to monitor very closely from now on,” he said flippantly. Not caring anymore, I stood in the light until my skin turned red and the pain doubled me over. It took my mind off the betrayal. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that this happened. Before Sandra, it was Janeane, and before her it was Chelsea, my high school sweetheart. They had all used me to help them financially and led me to believe they loved me, but they hadn’t. I’m not even sure they understood what love was. “She even took the coffee pot,” I thought shaking my head. “Why would you take the coffee pot, you don’t even like coffee?” I had asked when calling her phone. “Andre likes coffee and doesn’t have a pot and I am not about to go to Starborns all the time,” she replied. “You left me for Andre?” I had roared into the phone, unable to control my anger. Andre had been my best friend since eighth grade, my coworker, and my surrogate brother and the kind of guy who destroyed any kind of monogamous relationship he came in contact with. Always looking like he stepped out of a magazine, he was tall, well built, and had beautiful olive skin, a stark contrast to my alabaster tone. This was the last straw, I couldn’t do it anymore, so I didn’t. Leaving town had never crossed my mind before, this had always been home. I grew up here, but this time I saw no other choice, I had to get away. The house sold in a month and since it was my house and paid for, I at least had a windfall if needed. My work had accepted my notice without hesitation and didn’t even try to talk me out of quitting. Sad that I had been there, doing a good job, for fourteen years, but that’s life, I guess. All I owned fit in the small box trailer I had bought to haul the sound equipment that Sandra had taken as well. “If you don’t find a place, at least you can camp in the trailer for a while,” I told myself, trying to find a bright side. Leaving town as the sun broke the horizon, I steered my Tacoma toward the highway, set the cruise at 80, and never looked back. There was nothing left for me there and the road heading South was all that I wanted to see. Seventeen hours later I rolled into New Orleans tired, starving, and needing gas. Turning into the first Conoco station I came across found me being the only customer in the parking lot. Road weary, I stretched my back, walking a couple of laps around the truck and trailer before heading into the store. The attendant was a slim faced woman with an inviting smile and beautiful caramel skin. “You ain’t gonna find no place to stay in this town,” she said from behind the counter. “It’s Mardi Gras honey, and I’d be careful where I went in the city tonight, if I was you!” “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Can I get thirty-five dollars on pump four and this Coke?” I asked, sliding forty dollars across the counter. “Is there any place that I might find something to eat?” I inquired. Shaking her head, the attendant took the money, ringing up my bill. “Only place you’ll find food tonight is at my house and since I never seen you before I will probably keep my gumbo to myself,” she said, smiling through her thick Louisiana accent. Opening my palm for the change she stopped, dropped the change on the counter, and started crying uncontrollably. “You poor thing,” she wailed. Confused, I looked to see if there was some kind of grotesque tumor erupting from my hand, but there was nothing, it just looked its normal pasty white. The woman grabbed my hand with a grip like iron, tracing the lines of my palm over and over, tears dripping from her cheeks onto my skin. “You poor man. How many times have you been hurt by those you loved?” she asked. Reeling from these words, I felt like a hole had been torn through me, revealing my soul to the elements. “Three times,” I stammered as my knees started to buckle and the room began to spin. “Focus on me,” she commanded, “you can’t pass out on me. It’s important that you stay awake.” My eyes locked onto hers, vibrant and amber with little green flecks around the edges, tears pooling on her bottom lids wicking through thick black lashes before sliding down her cheeks. "Molina" etched in black letters on a gold name badge, pinned to her red shirt. "Wha...What’s happening here?” I stuttered, trying but unable to pull away. “You will never find what you need if you keep looking for it so hard, baby. It has to come natural-like. The other person shouldn’t care about your money, your stuff, only you and what’s in your heart,” she sobbed. “You got a light in you still and all the darkness surrounding your heart is from the pain caused by others. You got to let that go!” Molina said, wiping her face with a tissue. How was it that a woman whom I’d never seen before knew so much about me? Was I still asleep? What was happening to me? As these thoughts bounced to and fro in my head, Molina looked at me with those piercing amber eyes. “I have the sight, honey. Got it from my grand-mamma, who got it from hers, who got it from hers. It goes back generations in my family, and it can be a curse, as well as a blessing,” she said releasing my hand. “Your pain is written all over you and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone hurting so much. You need help, baby,” she said quietly. “Is this real?” I asked, backing away from the counter. “As real as breathing,” she said softly. Lunging toward the door, I forgot about my gas as I drove out of the parking lot, convinced I could find another gas station. I raced down the street, turning right for a few blocks, then back left, finding nothing but blocked streets and closed businesses. I let out a sigh of relief as I turned the corner and saw a station with all the lights on. My breath caught as I walked in, seeing Molina, waiting with my change in her hand. “I said you need help,” she said, smiling. “How is this possible?” I said, turning back toward the door. “Don’t leave!” she said sternly. “Jake Bertrand, you started running away long before you ever left home, you just didn’t know it. My name is Molina,” she said, pronouncing it “Moe-Lynn-ae”. “You are losing it Jake,” I muttered. “You aren't crazy, just broken,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s a reason you found your way back here and it’s not because you got lost. I led you back here with my light,” she smiled. “I saw the lights when I turned the corner,” I stammered. “Everybody can see those lights, honey. That’s not the light I’m talkin' about. I prayed that God would send you back to me, so that I could help you and he did,” she said matter-of-factly. Slumping onto a stack of papers, I dropped my head into my hands. I was dead, that was the only explanation that I could come up with. I had to have fallen asleep driving, died, and was now stuck in this weird realm of confusion. As if reading my thoughts, Molina chuckled as she said, “You aren’t dead, and this is real. Now go pump your gas and come back into the store.” My mind spinning, as my body, on autopilot, went and did as she had told me to. I looked at my watch to see if it was still ticking, trying to wrap my head around the events taking place. Time ticked along just as it always had, rendering me at an even farther loss for a rational explanation. The pump clicked indicating the tank was full as the sound of a nearby private Mardi Gras celebration ensued. The scent of warm, sweaty bodies engaged in dancing and drinking floated on the winds of the night accompanied by the raucous music of New Orleans’ largest celebration. My mind settled as the music and laughter lifted my spirits. “You made the right choice coming here Jake,” I heard from behind me. The gas station looked dark and abandoned; I hadn’t even noticed the lights had been turned off. The voice sounded familiar, but the woman speaking to me wasn’t Molina. “It’s me child,” she said with that unnerving ability to hear my thoughts. “How is this possible?” I asked, no longer afraid of her presence. “I knew you were going to come along at some point in my life. I’ve waited years for you to set foot in front of me, at this moment right here,” she said, reaching for my hand. Without hesitation I reached for her hand surprised at the strength of her grip, she looked to be 90 years old, but the amber eyes still blazed brightly. Looking around I realized the gas station didn’t just look abandoned, it was and had been for many years. “Molina are you an angel, or something else?” I asked hesitantly. “I am simply a messenger,” she said softly. “Why is this happening to me?” I asked. “Oh honey, it’s because you are broken, baby,” she drawled, “I know how to fix you, but you have to listen, because I am only allowed to tell you this once.” My vision blurring, I hadn’t realized that I had been crying this whole time. “I don’t want to be broken,” I sobbed, falling to my knees. “Please help me!” I begged. “Stand up, take me in your arms, and kiss me,” she said. I rose to my feet, bent down slightly to look into her eyes, and kissed her with a passion I didn’t know I possessed. That’s when I felt it; the pull from the depths of my soul. I could feel all the pain and darkness leaving me as she pulled me into the kiss. Her frail body was changing under the touch of my hand, her skin no longer felt taught over her bones, her hair spilled in endless curls down her back as she was growing younger. Our bodies intertwined in this ethereal embrace, seeming to reverse time, in defiance of the natural order of all that I thought I knew. We broke apart, breathless, and wanting more. Before me stood the young woman I had seen earlier. “What just happened? How did you go from young to old and back again? I’m sorry for all the questions, it’s just that I don’t understand any of what’s happening tonight,” I said through ragged breaths. “You saved me, and I saved you,” she said breathlessly. “I was cursed by a Voodoo queen a long time ago because she was jealous of the love I had for a man she wanted. She took him away from me and cast a spell, locking me in this old body for all but a few hours a year during Mardi Gras,” she said quietly. “So, this is all some kind of dream, right? There’s no such thing as magic, is there?” I said incredulously. “You tell me,” she said, pulling me in for another kiss. I couldn’t resist her touch and relished in the delicate kiss, savoring the taste of her lips, the softness of her tongue against mine. Pulling back to revel at the ebony beauty in my arms, I couldn’t help but wonder how long this moment would last. As if on cue, she tilted her head to the side with a sly smile saying, “The only way to break the spell was to feel the passion of a man broken by love, but who still wanted to find it. Even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself,” she said as tears streamed down her face. “I have been under this spell for over a century, hoping that someday, you would find me,” she sobbed. “I don’t understand any of this, but I can’t deny what I am feeling right now. How can I feel love for someone I just met, who tells me they’re over a century old?” I asked. “I feel it too and to explain it would take a lifetime. Are you willing to listen?” she asked demurely. Puling her close to me, I whispered, “Only if you are willing to spend that lifetime with me,” kissing her softly. “There’s no place I would rather be than in these arms for the rest of my days,” she said, hugging my neck and nuzzling my jaw. We talked through the night, standing in that abandoned lot until dawn. As the sun rose over Lake Pontchartrain, her onyx hair shimmering in the light, I felt no tingling, there was no longer pain, just the warmth of her touch, and the radiance of her smile. “I’ve waited a long time for you,” she said, squeezing my hand. Pulling her hand to my lips I said, “I am glad you found me. Let’s go home!” We crawled into the truck and drove all day with the windows down, heading nowhere in particular, just happy to be together and in love.


I let out a shaky breath, not quite willing to accept that I had gotten through this shopping trip without seeing another person. As I walk up to the cashier, my cart full of essentials, I make sure to keep my head down, silently putting my items on the conveyor belt. I heard the total distantly and carefully counted out the correct amount of change. Handing it over, I make sure to keep my eyes averted, but her sleeve rose up at the last second and I flinch as I catch a glimpse of her hand. Thoughts of age and fragility immediately speed through my head until at last, I feel my own heart quicken. And then, I feel nothing. I wince at the sudden nothingness and hurry out of the store. Throwing my groceries in the front seat, I sit for a few minutes, bracing myself for the drive home. I hate the task of driving, for it is near impossible to make an entire road trip without setting eyes on a single living thing. I pull out of the parking lot and start on the road, moving my eyes from landmark to landmark. I was approaching an intersection when an insistent honk of a horn caused me to fully look at what was going on - a mad man swerving his car through the intersection. The second I see him, an image flashes across my mind: engulfing fire... burning metal... the smell of gasoline... and then, just pain. I turn into a side alley as soon as it’s safe and park my car. I spend at least fifteen minutes just weeping, before building up enough strength to continue on. About an hour later, I am finally safe in my own home. My favorite place is my house. Residence of one, with no windows, and shelves stocked with non perishable foods - it was my safe place. It is the only place I can relax, or at least come close to relaxing. Although, ironically, my safe place was also my prison. Every day spent here, I feel more and more trapped. No companionship, no pets - there wasn’t even any plants. Not a living thing that could share a happy moment with me. Yet, even as I hate it, I knew that this was still better than what was outside the doors. One of my only constant human interactions was with the mailman. I open the door at 3:59, startling the mailman as he is still unused to me awaiting his presence. I force myself to meet his eyes and watch the scene play - the same scene I had seen yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before. I had seen it so often that I could recite it from memory. His climbing the stairs of the tallest building in town; his body falling story after story before he finally hit the ground and then, darkness. I am still unable to hide my flinch as I grab the paper from him. I’m sure that he joins the rest of this neighborhood in thinking that I’m mad, and who knows. Maybe I am. I just don’t understand. He seems so happy every time I see him. He greets me with the same smile and “How are you?”. Why does he do it? I’ve spent many an afternoon pondering over him and it may very well be the thing that kills me once and for all. I’ve cried over his death, knowing that I cannot fix his fate without ruining myself. The countless times I’ve tried to save people before him have proven that fact to me time after time, and maybe this time, I would finally learn my lesson and just let him die. I was still standing in the doorway, staring out at the empty street, letting myself slip into the familiar feelings of loneliness, when all too suddenly, a woman opens her curtain in her room and I catch a glimpse of her face. I immediately collapse against my door, the searing pain and blinding lights of a car crash flashing through my body. I manage to crawl back to my rocking chair, engulfing myself back into the solitude of my house. I wish I was dead. Yet, even as I try with all my might, I cannot see my own death; I cannot cause it, and I cannot fulfill my greatest wish. I can see death in everything around me: the mailman’s eyes, the neighbor’s cat, and even the trees hold glimpses of death. Yet in the one place I wish it to be, I only find its absence. And so, I spend my days sitting in this chair, trying to escape the world but becoming all the more trapped. I must remain optimistic, even though my hope is all but lost. I must stay here in this city of bustling people, in this neighborhood of happy lives, in this house of solitude with the knowledge that no man should bear. Knowing that every time I hear a knock at the door, although a breathing human stands on the other side, I am the last person on earth who is alive. Or rather, the last person who has not yet died.


(The following content contains actions of self-harm) *Character Identification*: Female, 9-14 *October 11, 2012* As I rounded the corner of my big house, I saw Shephia, my best friend for a few weeks now. She said that mommy and daddy couldn’t see her. She told me she was only visible to those who were vulnerable to the Astral Barrier. I don’t know what that means, though. Astral Barrier probably has something to do with the *Astral Plane* Shephia keeps talking about. I don’t know what *Astral* means, but I know what *plane* and *border* mean. Plane is an area... and border is something that can keep you from something... Shephia is taller than me. Almost as tall as my mom, but maybe... about six or seven inches shorter. She told me she’s fifteen, but she looks closer to eighteen. She acts really adult-like, telling me not to do risky things. But she’s fun to talk to. She told me about her ex-boyfriend. It’s a really nice story. Today, I asked her to tell it to me again. In her white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans, she sat on the air, a foot above the floor. “Okay, okay,” she said after I asked her for the sixth time in a row. “I met Slava when I was going to Russia, where my dad lived. Since they lived in different countries, I spent every other year with my dad. I went to a new school each time I switched countries, so I didn’t really get to know anyone well. “But, when I was fourteen, that changed. My mom got sick and was put in a hospital. So, I’d be staying with my dad for a bit longer. “I was starting my freshman year of high school. The school was grades six through twelve. I walked in, and I saw that most of the people in my class, save the three newer students, already had a group of their own. “When I first saw Slava, I didn’t think he was born in Russia, he had a darker, more soothing skin tone. But after first period, I went up to him and asked: ‘how are you doing?’ “He looked surprised. Apparently, due to my Caucasian American skin tone. I explained to him that I a was a native to both America and Russia, my parents were just from the two different countries. “He explained he was adopted by a nice family from St. Petersburg. He moved out to the country with his older brother, Sacsha. “After the school day was over, we decided to walk home together, our houses being in the same direction...” As I listened to the long story of her and Slava getting to know each other and ending up a couple until Shephia died, I was sidetracked by the sound of a car outside. When she was finished with the story, I walked up to the window to see my dad with two other men from his work. Mom probably wouldn’t be very happy about that. If she wasn’t at work herself right now. “Who is it,” Shephia asked with her soothing, genuinely curious tone. I looked at her and said, “it’s daddy. With friends.” “Okay. Would you like to meet your dad’s friends?” “Nope.” “Why not, Little Enne?” “Daddy’s probably just inviting them over to suck up to them.” “Tha--at’s not a very nice thing to say about your dad.” “Fiiiiiine. I’ll go meet them.” “I was just asking, you don’t actually have to. They might be nice.” “All of dad’s friends treat me like a little kid.” “To a lot of people, you *are* a little kid. They might be nervous around people they perceive as little kids.” I proceeded to go downstairs to talk to my dad. I had a fun time, talking to them about drawing and learning new art styles. They seemed more at ease with me after we had a long conversation about drawing. When the two men left, one said, “bye, Lenne, hope we see y’again!” I smiled at the kind words said by a person I’d never have met in different circumstances. Shephia had good ideas... why didn’t I listen to her? When I went back to my room, Shephia was there, sitting on the floor. *On the floor*. She was actually sitting on the floor. I didn’t know she could do that. She looked distracted. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “Nothing much,” she said back. “What are you thinking about?” “Hmm... I’m thinking about dying.” “Was it hard for you?” “... yes, it was. It was very hard.” I had the sense she was holding back tears and sobs, but I asked her another question. “How did you die?” She paused, eyes widened, and she had this look of... just being... overwhelmed by the question. Then she seemed to calm down and said, “maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older.” “Uhhh... okay, fine.” And with that, I had something strange to look forward to, in a few years. *September 14, 2017* I was fourteen when our parents called a friend of theirs who called herself a “*White Witch*” over to exorcise the house. I rolled my eyes. The only bad spirits were in the corner of the basement... and they mostly kept to themselves. She came over and introduced herself. Mom didn’t really believe in the supernatural or paranormal, but dad and I did. Well, I mean... I’ve been talking to a ghost for the better part of my life, so I’d have to believe in it. It’d be weird if I didn’t. “I’m Elizabeth, call me Liz. You must be Lenne,” she said to me. I nodded and replied, “yeah, that’s me. Lenne. You can also call me Enne.” “Okay, Enne. Nice to meet you. Do you believe in ghosts?” “Yup. Just don’t go to the northeast corner of the basement.” Her face turned from one of joy to one of terror. “Why, what’s down there?” she asked. “Hands.” Her face then morphed into one of confusion. She gave me a pebble, then handed my dad a pebble and we sat on the couch while she did her thing. When she came back a few minutes later, she was sweating and looked totally worn out. She gave my parents and I small corked vials filled with different things. *Protection jars*, she called them. “There was something in the basement I couldn’t completely get rid of. It’ll come back,” she said, looking at me. It seemed like she was trying to see past my soul and into my mind. “And there’s something around you... seemingly protecting you. It’s kind and soft, but... it’s something that could turn on you.” I wanted to correct her, to say that Shephia wasn’t an *it*, she was a *she*. But I could tell that Elizabeth could see Shephia, so I didn’t worry. Then Shephia’s voice spoke to her. That beautiful, soothing voice. “I’d never cross Little Enne. You may see how my past presence faded, but I can assure you I’m loyal.” I nodded, and Elizabeth realized I could see and hear her too. Elizabeth smiled, said her goodbyes, and left. I hid my relief that she left until Shephia and I got to my bedroom. “Thank god she left,” I sighed. Shephia looked worried. Her next words surprised me. “I think it’s about time...” her voice trailed off for a few minutes, but she managed to finish the sentence. “I think it’s about time... I told you *How* *I* *Died.*” I felt my eyes widen in surprise and confusion. “Okay, I’m listening,” I said to her. She told me the story of how she died. Her dad wasn’t paying a lot of attention to her, always by her mom’s side. She decided it’d be better for him if she did it. She told me she drove herself to her dad’s work, took the elevator to the roof, above the sixteenth floor, and took a pocket knife with her. She walked to the edge, stabbing herself so she would die for sure. Then she jumped off. Listening to her story, I was horrified. I never expected my best friend of five years... to have killed herself. She said that the house I lived in was her favorite house that her mom had owned. I felt tears on my face, and realized I was on the verge of sobbing. *September 20, 2017* Walking home from school, I was excited to bake cookies for late September, as I did every year, with my dad. Instead, I came home to my greatest fear. I got home from school to find my parents bleeding on the floor, black hands reaching out for them... And the hands had Shephia by her arms and legs and hair. Her mouth was covered by the hands, and I noticed my parents could hear her muffled screams and see the hands too. “Shephia!” I yelled, but she stopped screaming and opened her eyes to look at me. She smiled. And as I watched the hands push her into terror and darkness, I didn’t do anything. She wouldn’t have wanted me to grab her. She would have wanted me to help my parents. So I did. I helped my mom and dad to their feet. Dad was stabbed, somehow, but mom only had deep scratches on her limbs. She could still walk, though. Dad, however, was very badly injured. The *stab* wound was a few inches deep. Mom drove to the hospital. I was surprised she could still use the muscles in her legs enough to get us to the hospital, which was seventeen minutes away by car. When we got there, my mom and dad were immediately put into rooms, the hospital not being very busy. I went to a waiting room, alone. I didn’t know what to do, so I asked if I could borrow a pencil and some copy paper. On the paper, I drew my nine-year-old self sitting on my bedroom floor, back of my head facing the viewer. And above me, sitting on air, smiling while telling one of her favorite stories, was a long-dark-brown-haired girl with green hazel eyes wearing a white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans. On the right side of the drawing was my bed, and framing Shephia’s upper body and head was the window in my old bedroom. Next, I drew Shephia, pointing a knife to her heart on the top of a tall building, wind blowing in her hair, getting ready to glide off. Then I found myself drawing the hands, in the corner of the basement. I hadn’t even thought about what I drew, I just let the desire to move the pencil across the different sheets of paper guide my drawings. When I looked at them, I felt more tears fall down my face. Shephia... didn’t want to *leave* again. She loved me... like a guardian angel. *She was my guardian angel.* *And now I’ll never get to repay her for all the things she did for me.


The cold shoulder  Harv grabbed a handful of wheat with his offhand. With his other hand, a quick swoop of his sickle the wheat came free of the ground that birthed it. He released. The wheat floated to the ground. Harv grabbed another handful. Cutting wheat was hard work. Especially this wheat. The wheat in Harv’s land grew short. One had to bend in order to get low enough to cut the short wheat. That bend had to be at the waist, not the knees, in order to move fast enough to cut the wheat in time. If the wheat wasn’t cut in time, the cold and the rain would destroy it and many in Lowville would go hungry or starve. Harv wouldn’t have it. He grabbed another handful of wheat. Calling it Harv’s land, was not technically incorrect, but it was misleading. In the town of Lowville, everyone owned the land together. Everyone planted together. Everyone harvested together. It was backbreaking work. Not that Harv minded. Another handful of wheat. Another swoop of his sickle. Always away from his body. The sickle was sharp enough to take a finger as easily as a grain of wheat. Harv had no desire for that. He liked the way things felt in his fingers. Harv stood and put his knuckles into the small of his back. They massaged and worked out the soreness to the extent possible. Everyone always had muscle tenderness in their backs and the backs of their legs for at least a couple of days. Sometimes, for a week. This was a good year for harvest. Tonight’s celebration would be one to remember. He turned side to side, scanning the fields. A hundred other men, of all ages, separated wheat from the land. A hundred women, of all ages, bundled the wheat and tied them together into sheaves, using straw. Harv didn’t pay attention to any of them, except for one. Sonpra sheaved as fast as Harv cut. Her golden hair spilled about her shoulders. Over the summer, the sun had burned her skin red before settling into a light bronze. Like everyone else in town, Harv couldn’t relate. His hair was black, and his skin stayed bronze year-round. They were made for each other. Tonight, he would tell her how he felt. Harv looked around some more. Sonpra’s father cut at a good pace for a man of his years. His hair was also black and his skin bronzed. He was not really Sonpra’s father. No one knew who her parents were, but the man had raised her as if she were from his own seed. It wasn’t the first time Harv had worked alongside the old man. Earlier in the summer, he had helped re-thatch Sonpra’s roof which was also a lot of hard work. He had said he had done it out of the goodness of his heart, but really, he had just wanted to be closer to Sompra. They were meant to be together. Harv looked around some more. Chad was the last person to catch Harv’s eye. Not a fortnight ago, if you asked anyone in Lowville, they’d bet the entire village harvest that Chad and Sonpra would be betrothed in time for a spring wedding. Within the last week, that had all changed. Rumors circled that Sonpra’s parents were not human. Harv didn’t believe that nonsense, but Chad did. It was enough for Chad to sever any involvement with Sonpra as easily as Harv’s sickle severed the wheat from the ground. Harv had been there as a shoulder to cry on. They were meant to be together. Shortly before the sunset, the cutting finished. There was still some sheaving to do, but that work was done by the women and Harv needed to appear as manly as possible tonight at the feast. After one last glance at Sonpra, he headed home for a nap. That night with the harvest behind them, the people of Lowville celebrated. Harv had overslept and by the time he arrived the harvest festival was in full swing. He had to be the last person to arrive. A great fire, fifty paces in diameter and a hundred paces high, lit the otherwise night sky. Accompanied by the music of the lute and drums, the fire danced, and the villagers danced in step. Mugs of fermented drink were passed around. A couple of people offered the drink to Harv, but he declined. He needed a clear head tonight. Although, the drink would help with his courage. Chad was there. It boggled Harv’s mind that Chad believed the nonsense about Sonpra being the spawn of a non-human. Oh well, Chad’s loss and Harv’s gain. Sonpra’s dad was there too, but not for long. Harv waited until the old man left the festival to retire for the evening. A day of work that hard was enough to exhaust a man of his years. For a young man like Harv, it energized him. Then he spotted her. Sonpra wasn’t dancing. She wasn’t drinking either. She didn’t even appear to hear the music. With her ankles crossed and her hands clasped around her knees, she sat and stared into the fire. It mesmerized and terrified her. Harv could tell by the look on her face. Harv sat between the fire and Sonpra, facing her. He crossed his ankles and clasped his hands around his knees, mirroring her position. He studied her blue eyes and curled up lips. She was perfect. They were meant to be together. Harv took a deep breath then let it all out. Everything. He professed his love or her, how he had always loved her, and how he would always love her. Sonpra’s eyes went wide. The silence was too discomforting. Harv filled it with babble. He explained how he had helped her father repair the roof so he could be close to her. How he had been there for her when her relationship with Chad went sour. Sonpra was as still as a statue, her eyes so wide they nearly went out of her head and her mouth was agape. Harv elaborated how he had been hoping that Chad and she wouldn’t last. How he had been elated when they separated. How he had been waiting for his chance to be with her. Sonpra stood then walked away. Harv was stunned. He jumped to his feet and chased after her, all the while professing how good he would treat her, unlike Chad. Sonpra picked up the pace of her walk. She asked him to leave her alone. Harv had to jog to catch up with her. He told her how he knew she would be so happy with him. Sonpra warned him not to touch her then ran from him. Harv broke into a run to catch her. He yelled to her that he deserved to be with her. That he had earned it. He caught up to her and grabbed the back of her shoulder. Harv dropped in pain. A pain so great it knocked him unconscious for a minute. His hand throbbed and his other hand caressed it. It was as frozen as if he touched the skin of Mendax. In the light of the fire, his hand was as white as snow. A stark contrast to the bronzed skin of his other hand. Sonpra was nowhere in sight. Harv wobbled home, ashamed and confused. His hand stopped hurting. It stopped everything. He could feel nothing at all. When he awoke his hand had returned to normal, except his palm and fingertips were black. The black parts of his hand could feel nothing. Harv could use the hand, but never regain feeling in it. He also never went near Sonpra again.


According to a contract I signed in the year 2012, everything you are about to hear is completely prohibited. As an ex-editor for a well-known special effects studio, I would like to remain anonymous. That is why you may notice I refrain from using people’s names or places where “The Incidents” took place, for the sake of keeping my identity hidden. I am taking a huge risk here leaking this information online, but the public deserves to know. We are unwittingly crossing into territory never meant for the living, and messing with forces that we don’t yet understand. All for the sake of entertainment. We should have left well enough alone. What’s dead, should stay dead. As many of you may remember fans and attendance witnessed a surprise performance by none other than Tupac Shakur. The long-dead legendary rapper blew fans minds with his lifelike appearance. Its interactions with Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg almost seemed too real to be just a hologram. Long-time fans had tears in their eyes as if they relived their earlier years in the 90s. Through the miracle of technology, we were able to bring back the voice and embodiment of a musician who hasn’t been alive since 1996. People were blown away by the performance and thanks to media coverage and social media, word of Holographic Performances spread like a wildfire. Soon enough, “An old Dirty Bastard” from the Wu-Tang Clan appeared on the stage in New York, almost a decade after his death. A year later Michal Jackson moonwalked across the stage at the Billboard music awards. None of us will ever forget when Prince appeared during the super bowl halftime show. It wouldn’t be long before the first hologram musical would go on tour. That being said, these performances received mixed reviews by both fans and critics alike. Although the sound quality and visual effects were impressive, some people reported a strange feeling they had while watching the hologram, some felt a strong feeling of discomfort and couldn’t exactly explain why. Some researchers have come out and tried to explain that this is due to a phenomenon that is known as the “Uncanny Valley”. The Uncanny Valley is a theory that hypothesizes there is a relationship with how human something can act and our reaction to that object. For example, when we see something that strongly resembles a human but is slightly off, we are repulsed by it, and for some, the illusions of these holograms trigger these same feelings. I am here to tell you today, that there is so much more to these feelings that science can't even begin to explain. At the time I worked for Digital Domain, the special effects production company behind the Tupac Shakur hologram. During early tests and reviews, things seemed pretty normal. It was after that one night weeks before Coachella where things took a strange and unsettling turn. Myself, as well as the rest of the editing crew, were working late to fix a few subtle glitches in the images. During our last review, we caught a few frames where the hologram's eyes moved in different directions and split frames where his lips didn’t match up with thy lyrics. None of us thought anything of it and were working late to make sure it was lifelike as possible for the big stage. After the first few attempts things got even stranger. At one point in the middle of “Keep Ya Head Up”, the hologram stopped dead in its tracks. It stood there ridged, eyes facing forward with a forlorn look on its face. Some began to search furiously to find out what frame we were stuck on but my eyes never left the Hologram. Then seemingly out of nowhere his lips began to move. I got out of my seat and leaned in close to try to make out what words the lips were forming. Then to my absolute horror, two holes appeared in the holograms chest, then one in the arm and another in the thigh. I fell back into my chair as the appearance of blood began to seep from the wounds. The holograms face never changed. Then for the first time since its lips began to move one word came through our speakers, “Mama”? The hologram's eyes than rolled back and the mouth opened wide and then just like that, it stopped. The image of Tupac went back to his performance and the lyrics of the song continued. The bleeding bullet holes were gone. There were many reactions from the crew that night. Some claimed they didn’t see it, others claimed they saw the bullet holes but didn’t hear the words, and others outright claimed it was nothing more than a glitch. One thing was for certain though, the show must go on. Days after the incident, I went back through every single frame and couldn’t find a single one that showed me the image I saw that night. There was no way that what we saw that night was a simple glitch. What are the odds that an image would appear in the exact same manner the rapper was left after being gunned down 23 years ago? Although soon after the incident, every single member of the crew was approached by studio executives who strong-armed us into signing a non-disclosure agreement that prevented us from ever talking about “The Incident”. Rumors spread fast through the special effects studios. I have heard from an Ex-soundman who helped work on the Roy Orbison, and Buddy Holly Hologram tour, that his department also had their own incident. During the test performance, Buddy Holly's hologram also froze partway through “Rave On”, leaving the hologram crouched over with his head between his knees and his hands over his head. He also claimed that he heard the words “We’re going down, we’re going down” were repeated by the hologram over and over again with his tone growing more and more frantic. Then just like that, it continued to perform just the way it did before. The studios head CEO assumed this was a prank made by the editing crew made in poor taste at the deceased musician's expense. Buddy Holly as some of you may not know was the victim of a plane crash in 1959. Everyone in the editing department was fired without further investigation or notice and were also made to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Not much later I caught wind of rumors of a severe incident during the makings of the Michael Jackson performance. Many of you may not know that originally before the Michael Jackson hologram appeared briefly on the stage during the Billboard music awards, our studio was tasked with the editing of what was supposed to be an entire concert of some Micheal Jackson greatest hits. After this particular incident the whole project was scrapped, save the frames later on salvaged for his performance of “Slave to the Rhythm” later on that year. Here were the details of the incident as follows. During the editing of Michal Jackson's song “Smooth Criminal,” the hologram began acting erratically. Sometimes portions of the holograms body like his legs and torso would freeze as if stuck in place while the rest of its body continued to move unnaturally. Soon they began to notice they could hear strange whispers over the original audio of the song in Jackson's voice. No one could understand the words as they almost sounded like they were being spoken backward like a voice recording being played in reverse. Then a power surge caused the entire studio to blackout, every single light and computer monitor screen went dark and the speakers went silent. Then to everyone's shock, the hologram kept moving. Its limbs began to bend at unnatural angles the facial expressions began to change between looks of abject horror, anguish, amusement, sadness, and anger. Some witnesses said they began to smell sulfur in the air. Others claim the smell was more like rotten meat. Some witnesses began to hear whispers in many voices around them. Sometimes behind them. Sometimes in front of them. Sometimes they sounded as if they were being whispered right into their ears. The hologram began to bleed from its eyes, ears, and mouth and its eyes somehow seemed to look into the eyes of the witnesses all at once. Its mouth began to open impossibly wide as a desperate wail erupted from its holographic vocal cords. The hologram than vanished as the recording of the evil laugh from Jackson's music video for “Thriller” boomed from the speakers. After this incident non-disclosures and hush money were not even needed. The few witnesses all recessed into different states of silence. The least extreme case being driven into insanity. The most extreme case being suicide. The higher-ups in the studio expressed that the results were caused due to the extreme pressure the staff was working under and the unfortunate negative effects flashing lights in the studio had on the human mind. The only reason I found out about this incident myself was that one of my co-workers who I will not name was asked by one of the witnesses to scrub some of the audio to see what he could make of it. After listening briefly to the strange words being spoken by the hologram, he then played it in reverse to find the words that were being spoken backward in Jackson's voice. In an almost robotic monotone, his words were clear, “Can you feel them? Can you smell them? Can you hear them? They are close. They are near.” Then after a long pause. “They... are... here.” Before he was able to share these findings with the witness, he found out that the same man's mind had recessed back into a blank state, that was said to have been caused by a nervous breakdown soon after the incident. Although not soon afterward I was laid off due to our special effects production company filing for bankruptcy after some “copyright lawsuits.” Part of me was relieved when I received the news, knowing that the tampering with the unknown that was causing these incidents would finally stop. Sadly, as the popularity of Holographic Performances continues to grow, nothing will stop these companies from “Digging up the dead” and disturbing the likes of whatever abysmal beings tend to the souls of the deceased. Who will be next? David Bowie? Freddy Mercury? Kurt Cobain? I don’t know exactly how it happened, perhaps the likeness of the musicians bore so much resemblance to their counterparts that their disembodied spirit was able to temporarily speak through their image. Or perhaps whatever unearthly beings who were tasked to tend to the souls of the dead suspected a resurrection and attempted to break into our realm to claim it back. Whatever it is, our human brains cannot comprehend it, it drives men mad from the briefest exposure. I even find myself falling into depression and anxiety, self-medicating so that I may temporarily forget about what I saw that night in the studio. What if the next incident occurred in a stadium or a concert hall in front of hundreds of people? The effects would be catastrophic. There is nothing I can do about it except warn you. Please, if you value your life and your sanity, never attend a holographic concert. Remember the artists for who they were in life, and let them rest in peace. Let them live on through our hearts and their music, not through some perverse reincarnation made with technology. Let what is dead, stay dead.


I take in a much needed deep breath, standing up straight and wiping sweat off my brow. I squint towards where the sun is halfway across the sky, hours from setting. This is the last car, I promise myself. “Hey!” The driver of the car dips his sunglasses at me. “Hurry up and dry those tires. I’ve got places to be, you know.” I sigh before getting on my knees and snatching the rag from my bucket. “Of course, mister.” The driver groans, laying back in his seat and crossing his arms. If you didn’t want to wait for someone, you should’ve gone to an automatic car wash. Then again, I am grateful that he didn’t think to go to an automatic. With his fancy sunglasses and convertible, it’s obvious he’s loaded . . . or drowning in debt. “There you go, sir,” I say, scrambling to my feet, taking a look at my work. I plaster a kind smile on my face before holding out my hand to the man. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.” He scowls. “Worst fifteen dollars I’ll ever spend.” He scoffs before turning his car into drive from park and taking off down the road. I let my smile slip before collapsing into my camping chair. “So hot . . .” I murmur to no one, taking in another deep breath. It’s the first day of summer today, and the sun has decided to prove to me that it can get a lot hotter than ninety here on the east coast. Not to mention the humidity. Forcing myself to stand, I fold up my chair and sling the strap across my chest. Then I pick up the blue Lowe’s bucket that I use to carry all of my supplies before making my way down the street towards home. It’ll feel nice to be in air conditioning again. The streets of Cape Charles are bustling with people this evening. People scroll on their phones, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, while others walk their children home from school. None of them seem to be uncomfortable in the heat. Then again, it probably doesn’t help that I came straight from Alaska. Virginian heat and humidity was not something I was prepared for when I moved here. “Hey, mister!” A small hand grabs onto my shorts, and I’m quick to turn around and face the little girl. Her dark hair is braided over her shoulder, her ears sticking out harshly. Her cheeks and face are red from the heat, freckles dotting her cheeks and arms exposed by her unicorn tank-top. “You look like you could use a drink!” “Samantha!” An older girl, maybe in her junior or senior year, takes hold of the small girl. Auburn curls are tied into a fierce ponytail as she scoops up the small girl. She smiles apologetically at me. “I’m so sorry. She’s just trying to sell some lemonade.” “Yeah!” Samantha wriggles out of her grasp, running over to a small table beside the sidewalk. “You want some? It’s really good!” She hurries behind the stand, taking a red SOLO cup into her hands. “She’s quite the saleswoman,” I say. “You know what? I’d love some lemonade.” The older girl laughs. “Mom was right about you after all, Sam. Who could resist the charm of a six-year-old?” “Nobody!” she exclaims, grinning as her sister pours a cup for me. “Try it! Try it!” Samantha holds it up for me. I smile and take a sip. It’s cool and refreshing against the heat. Not too sweet, but not too tart or sour, either. “Mm,” I murmur, rummaging through my pocket. “How much?” “Nothing! It’s free!” Samantha practically bounces up and down. “You’re our first customer, so Brigette decided that we should just give it away since no one would buy it.” My easy smile slips off my face. “That’s not fair. You two spent all this money and time on making the stand, and you get nothing for it?” “I just like serving people,” Samantha says quickly. “Do you like it? Is it good?” “It’s great! That’s why I just don’t think it’s fair that I pay you nothing.” Brigette holds out her hands as I hold out a dollar bill. “Oh, no, it’s alright, really! As Samantha said, we’re not looking for money.” I click my tongue. “Please, just take it. If I pay you nothing, it’ll be on my conscience.” Samantha and Brigette both look at each other, hesitating for a moment too long. “Here, just take the dollar for now, and I’ll exchange it for fifty cents later. Fifty cents for lemonade seems fair, hm?” I slide the dollar across the table. “Here, give me that paper. I’ll write down my number.” Brigette hands over a pen along with the paper, and I write down my number. As she takes it back, Samantha asks, “What’s your name?” “My name is Pakak. ” Both of the girls stare at me with confusion. I have to laugh. “It means ‘one who gets into everything’ in my native language. I’m from Alaska.” I hold out my hand to shake. “But here, I’ve decided to go by Peter.” Brigette takes my hand, offering a firm handshake. “Well, welcome to America. I’m sure the heat is new?” I sigh, taking a sip of the lemonade. “Oh, yes. Our summer is a lot like your fall.” I look down at my watch as it beeps. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.” I look up at the girls. “I’ll exchange fifty cents for that dollar as soon as I can.” I turn around and walk down the sidewalk. Glancing back, I see Samantha grinning as she waves goodbye. Smiling, I do the same. It’s as Brigette said. Who can resist the charm of a six-year-old? *** I step onto the porch of the small house, the messaged address of Brigette and Samantha. Checking the address again, I knock on the door. A woman with grey streaks in her dark hair opens the door. Her eyes are red and puffy, tear streaks lining her cheeks. “Can I help you?” She sniffles. “Um, I bought lemonade from your daughter the other day. I gave her a dollar, and--” “Oh, Peter!” Brigette appears at the door. Her eyes are red too, but she’s quick to wipe her remaining tears away. “I’ll go get a dollar.” When Brigette disappears, I turn to who I assume is her mother. “I know it’s none of my business, but is everything alright?” The woman’s face seems to sag, her frown deepening. “Please, come in.” I step inside, walking into the living room. Everything is tidy, but oddly quiet. “Is Samantha at school?” “I homeschool both Brigette and Samantha,” she says. “But, no, Samantha isn’t here right now.” The topic of Samantha seems to trouble her. I lower myself onto their couch. “Is there something wrong with Samantha?” Silence lingers for a few moments. “She was diagnosed with leukemia yesterday.” Each individual word drops like a stone. I imagine Samantha, the small, joyful girl in her unicorn top smiling up at me. She seemed perfectly fine a week ago. So what happened? “Are the doctors sure?” My voice is weak. All Samantha’s mother can do is nod; any words she has die on her lips. Brigitte comes back downstairs, a dollar in hand. She smiles as she hands it to me. "How come you came all the way here to give me fifty cents for a dollar, anyway?" I blink, not quite understanding what she means. "Uhm, to exchange fifty cents for a dollar?" Samantha's mother laughs. "Fifty cents? Was that really worth your time coming here?" They're both laughing now, smiling at me. Expecting me to laugh along with them? I don't know. How can I laugh along with them while still confused as I am? I decide to shake the topic. "I'd like to ask if I can help." I don't need to specify. Samantha's mother's eyes snap to mine. I can already see the newfound pain swimming in them. "I couldn't ask that of you, Mr . . . uh." "Peter suits me fine," I say quickly. "And I want to help. Please. " I understand how she feels, not wanting anyone to help her in such a situation. But accepting help got me here, to Virginia. Maybe if I can help her like my village helped me, I can put her in a better place than she is. Her gaze wavers. She blinks a few times, holding back the tears that pool at the bottom of her eyes. "I won't accept any money, Peter." "And I wasn't going to offer any." I can already feel a vision building in my head. "I say we fundraise. Start something that people are going to love and give to." "And what exactly could we start?" Brigette hasn't said anything since she came downstairs, but now, she smiles from her seat across the room. It doesn't take long for me to think. "A business. How about a bakery? People love those. And I've always loved to bake. Especially if it's a recipe that's been passed down my family." Brigette looks about ready to bounce up and down in her seat. "An Alaskan bakery? Thanks sounds amazing!" "But the cost--" Hesitantly, gently, I lay a hand on the middle-aged woman’s arm. Her eyes meet mine, and I offer her my kindest smile. "Let me worry about the money." I look at Brigette, who has now fallen silent, the ghost of a smile on her face. " You two focus on Samantha. Sound like a deal?" "Why are you being so kind to us?" Brigette's mother's voice is but a whisper. Maybe to hide how it waivers. "It’s God's miracle," Brigette murmurs, and both of our heads whip around to look at her. "God delivers. He takes care of us and gives us what we need. Even when it seems impossible." Brigette breaks her gaze from me to look at her mother. "The sermon last week, remember?" Her mother's eyes snap to mine, and suddenly I feel as if I'm being examined like a fish at the market. "Thank you, Lord" is what I think she murmurs under her breath. Weirded out, I stand from my spot on the couch. "I should be going." "My name is Genevieve," Brigette's mother erupts from the couch. "Genevieve Gurr." "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Gurr--" "Please, Genevieve serves me fine," she says quickly, her eyes sparkling with . . . admiration? Or maybe it's just tears. I'm not sure. "Alright." My voice comes out tight and strained. Brigette just looks from me to her mother, intrigued but oddly disgusted. "I'll get the door," Brigette finally says when her mother doesn't move from her seat. Genevieve nods, smiling softly at me. Once we're outside, Brigette closes the door behind us. "How old are you, exactly?" "Thirty-five," I answer automatically. Then my eyebrows furrow. "Why?" She narrows her eyes. "Don't you think you're a bit . . ." She stops, her expression dripping off her face. "Oh. My mom's thirty-three." I raise my eyebrows, still confused. "Alright . . . I'll see you later, Brigette." As I turn away, making my way towards the driveway and my car, she calls "thanks for everything" after me. *** The next morning, I get right to work. I don't know how much time Samantha may have, so I waste none of it. I start by making a Facebook page, which I've never done before. But, texting back and forth with Brigette, she thinks it's a great place to start. And in the first, painfully long hour, we make fifty dollars on something called a Go-Fund-Me . The support makes my heart lurch, so much so that I scroll through my computer for hours, looking at places around town for lease. Somehow, I find the perfect place. I do as Brigette instructs, clicking the blue button here and typing in some information there. I'm grateful for her help, because without it, surely I would be lost in pages and pages of screen. Things just seem to fall into place after that. We rent out a place, someone donates furniture to us. Better yet, the wood is pine--straight from the area around my home village. Everything couldn't be more perfect. I took care of the shop, getting it fixed up and moving things in with some help from Genevieve. Brigette took care of advertising, online and outside the shop. She stood outside the shop for hours without end, turning the sign around and talking to possible customers. And then I baked. Genevieve sometimes found the time to help, arguing her way into the kitchen with me. After all, she would come straight to the bakery after work, insisting that she help me. I've never been good at arguing, so in the end, I caved and let her help me. With everyone pulling their weight, things started to brighten. Samantha was able to get the treatment she needed, enough to get some of her strength back. She had wanted so badly to see the bakery where we were making the money for her, and so Brigette and a few of our sponsors got together to surprise her. The bakery was decorated with unicorns. The streamers were every color, and Genevieve had even made her daughter a unicorn cake. I almost stuffed the whole cake in her face, if only to get her to gain some weight. She was all skin and bones it seemed. She might have been getting treatment, but it didn't seem to be enough. *** I lay a hand on Brigette's shoulder. She hasn't bothered to wear makeup. Smart of her. If she did, her mascara would've smeared from all the tears rolling down her face. I open my arms, and she falls into them, sobbing. I look into the casket, my eyes falling on the skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of skin. Even under so much makeup to make her skin seem normal, she still looks dead. Beyond death. Genevieve takes my arm. "She would've been seven today," she murmurs, her voice shaky. She keeps her eyes on my face instead of on her daughter's body. "I'm so sorry." I meet her eyes. "I tried. We all did." "It's alright, Peter. Everything happens for a reason." Finally, she lets her eyes fall on Samantha; her carcass. I know enough to know that her spirit is gone. "God took her home for a reason. She was suffering. And now she's not." Brigette breaks out into even more tears, falling instead in her mother's arms rather than mine. "Does this mean you'll close down the bakery?" Genevieve murmurs over Brigette's greif. I roll back on my heels. "I'm not sure." I look at the body, wondering what Samantha would say if she were here. I know exactly what. "I don't think she would've wanted me to." I look at Genevieve, and Brigette, who's stopped crying to listen. "And I think she would've wanted me to stick around you two for a little while longer, too." I wrap an arm around their shoulders, smiling. Genevieve blushes, tipping her head up so that Brigette doesn't see. "If that's what you think she would've wanted." She fights a smile as we walk out of the room, and into the sunlight of the outside. "Of course." I look at Brigette, whose auburn hair glitters in the light of the sun. "After all, who can resist the charm of a six-year-old?"