He picked through the rubble of what had been his childhood home, looking for anything that might be kept as a souvenir. Bryon meticulously opened drawer after drawer in the kitchen before moving on to the cupboards and then searching under piles of old papers and leaves that had been left to blow arbitrarily through the broken home, lifted by even the gentlest of breezes as it wafted through from the missing front door to the broken patio glass. He hadn’t been back there since that night. Memories would occasionally surface in his mind of the life they had lived as a family in Mojave Heights before everything had happened. They spent many nights sitting at the dining table that had been positioned just to the left of where he was standing. His father always sat at the head of the table, and his mother sat opposite him. Bryon’s older sister and younger brother sat across from Bryon, and the five of them spent many nights playing card games like War or Go Fish. He remembered the rules with a cringing familiarity. They were not allowed to use anything that required electricity or batteries outside of the house lights and refrigerator on weekdays. That meant they could read, but they couldn’t watch television. They could play card games, but no video games. They could go visit friends, but not call them. They could play music, but they couldn’t listen to it. The rules seemed so strange to the kids at the time, but once the rules no longer existed, Bryon didn’t mind so much. He had lots of great memories to look back on, like the time his brother got mad that his mom kept winning at Go Fish and tried to cheat, but the cards fell out of his large sweater sleeve, right in front of everyone. Slowly he wandered up the cracked and decayed steps to the second floor, where he and his brother Mark had shared a bedroom. The carpets had long since been torn out, but he knew exactly where the bunk bed had been just as clearly as if the impressions were still there in the cheap rug, now long gone. Nothing remained in the closet, but he could almost see shadows of where his Spiderman costume once hung. His sister Maggie's room was next door, his parents down the hall. The last room to look at would be the bathroom, he acknowledged. For five people in one home, having only a single bathroom had been a nightmare for the family. They had to take turns, which meant extra time in the mornings. Nobody was allowed to be in the bathroom for more than five minutes, and to a young boy that can be torture. There was nowhere else to go if he’d ever wanted to be alone as a child. Bryon glanced at his watch, entered the bathroom and closed the door. “Five minutes, huh? We’ll just see about that.” He chuckled to himself, curious to know what his mother would do if she knew. He glanced around the room briefly and laughed, realizing there was nothing to entertain him for the next five minutes aside from his cell phone, and with it being a weeknight, it felt strange to break more than one rule at a time in his childhood home. He pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink to peek at the darkness within. An old ponytail holder and a couple cotton tips lingered in the back, barely touched by the elements after all those years. He bent down to inspect the ponytail holder, wondering if it had been his sisters or his mothers, when his foot struck the baseboard at the front of the cabinet. It sounded hollow enough to garner his attention. Bryon backed away from the sink and looked at the baseboard, which seemed to be hanging at an angle. He pried his fingers into the sides of each end and pulled. With only minimal effort, the baseboard came loose and opened a small space beneath that he never knew had existed in all his years in the home. Stunned, he crouched lower on the floor to see further into the darkness. There wasn’t much visible and the space was dark, but he still didn’t want to break the ‘no electronics or batteries’ rule, more for sport than anything, so he wouldn’t use his phone as a flashlight. He figured the chances of being bitten by anything were slim enough that he should just go for it, so he thrust his arm into the open space to feel around. His fingers struck a couple different objects that he pulled out, one at a time. First came a small golden key. It looked like the key to a child’s diary, and Bryon guessed it probably had belonged to his sister. She hated it when Bryon and his brother would sneak into her room and read her private thoughts, but they always made the boys laugh. Second came a larger key. This one appeared to be a functioning key made for a house door or an old lock. It didn’t seem familiar, and Bryon slid it to the side. Third, Bryon pulled out an old roll of film, still within the original plastic case. Curious, he held it in his hand and stared at it a moment, as though that would reveal the contents within. He stuffed the film and two keys into his pocket, feeling as though he’d found the souvenirs he’d been searching for, and glanced back at his watch. Six minutes. HA! Bryon looked around the home one last time as he made his way slowly toward the front door. He’d spent many good years there, but it was finally time to leave it all behind. “Hey Luba,” he sighed into the phone at his wife. “I just left the old place. It was weird being back there.” “Did you find what you were looking for?” “I don’t know,” Bryon answered her honestly. “I mean, I went looking for some sort of closure, but I found a couple of other things too.” “Like what?” “I found what looks like an old diary key of my sisters, a key to something else, and an old roll of film.” “A roll of film? Oh my gosh, I haven’t even seen a roll of film since I was a kid. What’s on it?” Luba was always supportive of Bryon when he talked about his family, but this curiosity went beyond that. “I don’t know. You think I should get it developed?” “Yeah, of course! Why wouldn’t you?” “What if it has something on it that I don’t want anyone to see?” Bryon had genuine cause for concern. As many good memories as he had in that house, there were a lot of hidden secrets, too. “I think all film is processed using machines these days. I don’t think anyone will see what’s on it. The machine does all the work and then shoves it into an envelope. I mean, as far as I know that’s how it works but we can ask. I’ll call the drug store and see.” Luba was more curious about the film than Bryon was, she realized. There was a lot about his childhood that Bryon never really told her about, but what could be so bad that he would be afraid of old camera film? “Yeah, can you? I love you. I’ll be home in a bit,” Bryon finalized, and the two hung up. His heart pounded in his chest. He hoped Luba was wise enough to not call the nearest drugstore to ask, or he’d be forced to take the film farther from home to have it developed. That probably wasn’t a bad idea anyway, he acknowledged. By the time he pulled into the driveway two hours later, Luba was already outside waiting for him. She was bundled up in her warmest jacket, hugging herself from the dip in temperature they’d experienced in the Adelanto high desert recently. She hurried to the passenger side of the old car and climbed in. “Okay, let’s go,” she grinned at him. “Go where?” “To the drug store,” she grinned at him quizzically. “The processing is done by a machine and that goes for all the Rite-Pharm locations in the state. I called the one in Apple Valley so you can take it to any location you want and they won’t know about the call.” “God, I love you,” Bryon grinned at her and leaned over for a kiss. “I know,” she grinned, referencing their favorite film, and kissed him back. By the time they got to the drug store they only had 20 minutes before closing, but Bryon had driven over an hour away just to be safe. The sign out front advertised one hour photo services, but he knew there was no way they could get that done. They’d have to wait until the next day to pick everything up again. They went inside, requested the single print service to be available the following afternoon, and made the long drive back home. Neither spoke much, and Luba knew Bryon had a lot on his mind. “It won’t be that bad,” Luba tried to reassure him, patting his arm. “I can only hope,” he nodded, praying she was right. After work the next day Bryon drove the hour back to the drug store to pick up the photos that scared him so badly his hands were shaking as he reached out to collect them from the clerk’s hand. Still fearful, he didn’t even open the envelope to see what was inside. Instead, he paid at the register, got back into his car, and drove the hour back home, only glancing at the envelope a couple of times. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he chose to do nothing. Luba would help him. She was good at that. He entered the house to the smell of fresh cookies. Luba, being the amazingly supportive wife that she had always been, knew this would be an emotionally torturous day for him and was doing what she could to make it just that much better. He smiled to himself, forgetting the envelope in his hand for a moment. How had he gotten so lucky? “Is that them?” Luba bounced around the corner, grinning at Bryon the way only she could. “Yeah,” Bryon nodded, morosely. “What’s wrong? What’s in it?” “I don’t know yet,” Bryon admitted, feeling somewhat sheepish to be so frightened of photos. “Well, let's grab some cookies and take a look,” she patted him on the small of his back, knowing the cookies would help tremendously in leveling his mood. A plate of fresh oatmeal cranberry cookies rested in the middle of the table with two tall glasses of chocolate milk. Bryon sat down, plopped the envelope carelessly on the table, and reached for the top cookie. Luba kissed his cheek and sat beside him at the table. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” Luba gingerly opened the envelope, as though it contained sheets of delicate gold, primed for turning to dust with any quick movements. She reached her nimble, slim fingers under the photos. Slowly, as though handling a duck egg, she slipped them from the envelope and held them out to Bryon. “I can’t. I need you to...,” he paused, not sure how to finish the sentence. “I got you,” she grinned, knowingly. The first photo was a close up of Bryon’s mother, showing an apple to the camera. Her mouth hung open and she seemed to be shouting in joy. Behind her in the frame stood an apple tree. Bryon could only guess that she’d picked an apple and someone had taken a photo of her to capture the sheer happiness on her face. How he missed that face. Luba moved it to the back of the pile to reveal the next photo. The second photo was similar to the first in that his mother was holding an apple still, but was taking a bite out of it. His sister was in the background, picking one of her own from the tree. They seemed happy. He remembered when they were happy. Luba moved that one to the back of the pile, too. The third photo was one of Bryon himself, sitting at the dining room table with his brother and sister, playing cards. Neither their mother or father were in the photo, and Bryon started to believe maybe the camera had belonged to his father since he was the only one not showing up in any photos so far. Luba followed the other photos with this one. “These don’t look so bad,” she smiled at him, reaching for another bite of her cookie. “No, they’re not so bad,” Bryon agreed. “I don’t know what I was afraid of.” He took a swig of his milk and offered to take the photos from Luba’s hands. She declined, and revealed the next photo. Bryon was standing with his mother and siblings on the back porch of their home, and his mother was holding a puppy. Everyone seemed so happy there together. Bryon was sitting on the steps, his mother was leaning on the railing, and his two siblings were sitting on what looked like a large metal case with a latch on it, half hidden beneath the porch. There, on the latch, was a large lock that looked as though it would need a key to open. He didn’t say anything at first, but instead he reached out a hand and pointed. Luba saw it too. “What is that,” she asked. “I’m not sure, but,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys he’d found with the film. “I’m wondering if this key would open it.” Chills shot up and down his spine. “Keep going. But slowly.” Bryon watched as Luba lifted the photo to reveal the next one down. It was darker than the others, as though it was taken in a dark room. It was hard to make out what they were looking at, but the sinking feeling grew. He knew this wasn’t good. “The next one,” he grew morose, knowing without having to guess what would be revealed in the next photo. He’d seen things like that before. He wished he hadn’t. Luba was still not sure. “Brace yourself,” he warned her. She leaned back a little, looked at Bryon a moment, and looked back at the photos. Slowly, with building anxiety, she revealed the next photo. It was a woman, naked from the waist down and in the fetal position. She had strange scratch marks all over her body and deep red marks around her throat, as though she’d been strangled to death. Her cloudy eyes told a story of their own. Luba and Bryon both understood her to be dead. Both of them recoiled, but neither were strangers to the horror. Bryon had recently been promoted to his department’s head Detective, and Luba had spent 20 years working for the county coroner. The next photo was a different woman, sitting upright in a chair, but with similar scratches on her arms and legs, and red strangulation marks around her neck. Luba glanced at Bryon. “Should I keep going?” “Yeah,” he replied, regretting the internal drive he now felt to find out the truth. He didn’t want to look, but he knew he needed to. He’d long suspected his father had been the serial killer, the unknown Alphabet Murderer, and he may have finally stumbled on the proof that had been missing since the 1980’s. Luba always knew of Bryon’s suspicion, but never really believed it herself. The next several photos were more women, each different, all naked from the waste down. Each had been strangled to death, and a few still had pantyhose or shoe laces tied around their throats. As hard as it was to keep looking at the photos, the two of them knew it was a necessity. They needed to see all of them. They’d turn them in to the police the following day, of course, but they needed to see the evidence before that. The last three photos were all that remained. Bryon took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and nodded. Luba took the top photo and slid it under the others, careful to keep everything in order still. It was another photo of his mother, Mary Martinez. Except in this one, she wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t picking apples. She wasn’t enjoying the sunshine or playing with a new puppy. She was, as the others had been, naked from the waist down. She had a noose around her neck. Bryon recoiled, tears biting at his eyes. “Mom,” he whispered softly. “Oh my God,” Luba looked on in horror. The next photo was of her again, this time joined by his two siblings. All three of them were dead. There was only one photo remaining. Luba revealed the last image. There in the photo, beside the back door of their old home, the large metal chest had been opened. Inside sat thousands of rolls of film, and on top of it all, his sister’s childhood diary with her initials "M.M." on the cover.


CARPE DIEM The ticking of wall clock, the clack of the bent fan blade on desk top fan. These are my companions. No attachments. No histories. No surprises in their futures. The basement sublet muffles most noise from the outside. No windows to pique curiosity. No television for current events. No radio for the latest music, only an internet connection for a work from home medical billing job. Its must easier this way. Relationships are messy, unpredictable and always painful in their ending. A therapist hired by my grandmother once asked me what my earliest memory was. I told him walking into my grandmother's kitchen as a boy of around 5 or 6. Smelling the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and feeling the heat of the large, white oven that dominated the space. He asked me if it was a comfortable feeling. I told him it was. What I never told him in the seven years that I was made to visit with him was that I had two memories from before that. The memories of what brought me to be at my grandmother's house. I was playing on a lawn of freshly mowed, green grass and throwing a plastic ball, red as a clown's nose. I could hear my father's voice talking behind me in the distance. He was laughing at some comment the neighbor had made from across the fence. The ball soared through the air, across the grass and rolled toward the street and I tottered behind like a paper kite skimming the tops of the blades in a faint breeze. Shouts. Footsteps, labored breathing and the sound of screaming tires. The smell of burnt rubber on asphalt. An impact. “Thank God, Matthew, didn't seem to comprehend what had happened,” mother would say more than once in the days to come. “ He just stood there, dazed.” But I did understand. My blank look had not been a lack of comprehension or feeling. I had already seen it, many times, in the days before. My father's demise. The next few months were difficult. Mother cried, grew distant. The people who had filled our home in the days after my father's death had all gone. Their lives returned to normal. Ours were an unpleasant reminder of what could be. Mother took to sleeping and, in time, rarely rose except to feed me and even that became irregular. The phone would ring but go unanswered. Sometimes there would be knocks at the door but they too went unanswered. Mail dropped in the door slot went unopened. One night, mother went to sleep but did not awaken. I sat quietly in the living room. Day turned to night. Then day to night and day to night again until grandmother came with a man in a blue uniform and they took me away. Grandmother told the therapist I never cried. Not once in all the time from that day until I began my sessions. I wanted to say that it was no great surprise. Like the sun rising or water coming from the tap, it was expected. I had seen these things before. So many times I was numb to them. But even then, so young, something told me I could not speak it. And though I would test this knowledge in my reckless teens, at that time I remained ever silent saying only what I felt they wanted to hear me say and nothing more. In high school I had a friend. Heidi O'dea. She moved in awkward strides like a colt on wobbly legs and had a mane of golden hair than sparkled in the sun. We used to talk. I loved her laugh. What would we be when we grew up? Would we get Mrs Peterson or Mr. Taft for social studies next year? Was pizza really the best food ever? In tenth grade, students went on a weekend field trip to McConnell Lake. Ostensibly it was to learn about nature and ecosystems but we all knew it would really be about swimming and kayaking on the lake, staying up late and telling stories around the campfire and stolen kisses behind the cabins. We were teenagers after all. But I never went to McConnell Lake. I had been under the weather for several days before that. Or so I had told my grandmother. And on the day we were to meet in the school's gymnasium parking lot, I was retching and so ill that I had to stay home in bed. Fifteen students died in a fire in the main hall on Saturday night. Faulty wiring in the old building it was said. At least twice that many suffered injuries. It was the last year the school held the field trip. The day before we were to leave, I told Heidi. In a rambling rush of fear, adrenaline and hormones I laid out what would happen. I watched her face change from confusion to mild amusement to consternation and then dismissive resolve. Perhaps I should be a writer, she had said. She never new I had such a vivid imagination. She'd never seen me this way. She wasn't sure she liked it. Finally, she got up, shouldered her book bag and said goodbye. She hoped she would see me on the bus in the morning. But I wasn't sure she hoped that at all. Much like the way we form a kind, yet careful, response when we open up a surprise package that does not meet our expectation, I was not what she had supposed and, perhaps, no longer to her liking. School was canceled for the week after the tragedy. I only interacted with Heidi once after that. The first day we returned I saw her in the hall. We stopped, facing one another a mere three feet apart as people rushed by around us like water passing two stones in a river. She looked at me in the way my grandmother would, in later years, look at photos of relatives or places she had been. Seeing something familiar and yet not quiet explainable as if she did not trust that was she saw was as she supposed it was and the knowledge frightened her. In those brief moments that our eyes met, I saw that she knew I had been right. In every detail I had captured not only the incident itself but the fear and pain and chaos it had evoked. She did not speak to me. We never spoke again. She hugged her books to her chest and slid by me, merging with the sea of students in the hall around us like a piece of flotsam carried off by the tide. Sadly, precognition does not extend to my own actions. If it had, I might have never said a word and spared myself the loss of a dear friend. Or worse. As a Junior in college I exited the main library building after an evening of study and slipped on the rain soaked steps, sliding from top to bottom in a few, frantic seconds before twisting my left leg into a most unnatural position. It took over a year of surgery and physical therapy to put it right again. I was still in a cast when I hobbled across the stage to pick up my degree the following year. I walk with a limp even now. So I came to understand that it was of no benefit to those who did not believe me and no benefit to me either. Over the years I tried many times to understand the ability. I tried to see its usefulness, tried to be a force for change. One can only be patronized so many times or looked upon with fear, loathing, or worse, suspicion. One can only feel the pain of adversity and death upon those one loves so many times without hope or mechanism to provide aid. The psyche is only so strong. So the days pass. Numbers and zeros on a computer screen. Electronically deposited checks to a bank branch I never step foot in. Orders for food, clothing and sundries placed online and delivered, anonymously, to my door. The tick of the 2 nd hand on wall clock. The rising and setting of the sun. These are my days. A prison? Selfishness? Madness? Superheros are for children. Super powers are for fools.


I guess the way it came about was that I was looking through some old negatives in my father’s darkroom. He was quite a photographer in the days before digital cameras and cell phones came along. He took a lot of pictures for fun, but also did some free lance work for a couple of newspapers and magazines. He kept at it until the digital cameras came along. He didn’t want to betray the cameras that were his old friends, and he didn’t want to learn about a whole new technology in his late 60s. So, he stopped. His death, years later, hit me hard. We were on good terms, I guess, but there were conversations I wanted to have with him that never happened. His darkroom in the basement of his suburban Chicago home was a place he spent so many hours, and in an odd way I felt connected to him in there. Under the red “safe” lite I saw there was a folder with negatives in it marked “Daily News.” I took one of the negative strips out and put it on the light board to see it more clearly. I guess a lot of people my age and younger have never seen a photographic negative. They are acetate strips of 35-millimeter film that have pictures on them, except opposite. Everything black is white, and everything white is black. When the negatives are printed the pictures come out just as they appeared the day they were snapped. One frame looked interesting. It showed two men in suits talking with each other, but nobody else was nearby. Just for fun, I put the negative strip into the enlarger and blew up that section of the picture and made a print. I had already mixed up the chemicals - the developer to bring the image to the white print paper, and the “fixer” to make the image permanent. The smells brought back memories of the hours I spent with Dad in his darkroom, learning the ins and outs of it all. Within a few minutes the image was developed, and it was safe to turn on the light. The paper was still wet, but what I saw in that picture made me do a double-take. What I saw couldn’t be real, but it was. I dried off the print, put the negative strip into a special folder and hid it inside of a book. Then I went upstairs and sat in the kitchen for a moment wondering what to do next. Should I call the local police? Nah. They wouldn’t take me seriously. They still think of me as a weird kid with a skateboard, even though I don’t even know where my skateboard is anymore. That was 10 years ago. Besides, this wasn’t a local thing. It wasn’t a county or state thing either. It was national, and maybe international. I decided I needed to contact the FBI. There was a problem, though. Over the years the FBI had become so politicized that something like this might get buried or mysteriously lost or destroyed. Or the messenger might get shot. Then it occurred to me that my best bet was to get the photograph to the right media source so they could make it known to the world. But who would that be? It was getting harder to know who was reliably doing news versus supporting whatever administration was in power. I remembered that my college roommate, Charles, had a friend who did a lot of investigative reporting. He didn’t seem to have strong political views but was always trying to find the truth about things. So, I called Charles. He gave me his friend’s email address along with a second, “secret” email address, “just in case.” I didn’t know what he meant by that. Here’s what I wrote to the guy, whose name is Mick Jackson: “Dear Mr. Jackson, My name is Oscar Morganford. I’m a friend of Charles Lakeman. He gave me your contact information so I could share something important with you. My father was a freelance photographer for several news magazines in the 1970s and 1980s. Going through some of his photographs after his death last May I stumbled on a picture that clearly shows then Vice President Murphy speaking at an event near Chicago with the man who eventually assassinated President Anderson. As you may recall, then incoming president Murphy claimed never to have met the assassin - a man named Marcus Williams. This photograph proves that to have been a lie and leads to the possible conclusion that Williams killed the president at the behest of Murphy. I’m turning to you with this information because I am unsure how to proceed without putting myself in danger. Please advise. Sincerely, Oscar Morganford Less than five minutes later I got an email from a different email address with nothing but a phone number and the initials MJ. I called the number and the person who answered had his speech slightly garbled to avoid detection. We arranged to meet in a concourse at O’Hare Airport the next morning. He said he would be wearing a disguise as an elderly woman and would be wearing a purple felted scarf. I said I would not. I bought the cheapest one-way ticket I could find so that I could go through security to meet him. I had no intention of traveling anywhere. The traffic, parking, and the TSA line were all about normal, by which I mean slow and frustrating. I made my way to the concourse and the gate number he’d given me. We sat next to each other in the waiting area outside a gate where a plane was boarding. He really did look like an elderly woman. I tucked the manilla envelope into the bag she or he had placed on the floor. I got up and left and she or he went to board the plane. I got my car out of the short-term lot and made my way back to my dad’s house. When I got there, I turned on the TV and saw that an airplane had been shot down just outside of the O’Hare Airport air space over lake Michigan. I went to the bathroom and threw up. Then I packed some things, grabbed the negative of the photograph, and raided the large salt-glazed stoneware pot where my father kept his “safe” money, and hopped on my bicycle. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I couldn’t stay there, and I was pretty sure they, whoever they were, knew my car license number. I stopped at a coffee shop and put on my baseball hat and sunglasses. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was the best I could do. I never expected to be a fugitive on the run. I sat and thought. Somehow, despite his efforts to remain undercover, Mr. Jackson was clearly being surveilled. Now I was on their radar too. Worst of all, I didn’t know who “they” were. I did know that someone who would have their president assassinated to become president and would have a commercial aircraft shot down to keep from being exposed wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. So, I did what I had to do. I tried to go viral. I made a new Facebook account and a new “X” account under an assumed name: TrueJustice. Then I took a photograph of my father’s picture and posted it on both sites with the following message: “The plane that crashed today was shot down. On that plane was investigative journalist Mick Jackson. He had been given a photograph showing former President Murphy talking with assassin Marcus Williams, who he swore under oath he had never met. Someone doesn’t want that picture made public. Too late! This is that picture. No edits or manipulations have been done. Did Murphy have our then president killed to become president? I don’t know. But I do know that President Murphy lied under oath. I also know that his hand-picked candidates have ascended to the presidency after his two terms. Were they involved? I don’t know. Who shot down that plane? I don’t know. I’m just the guy who still has the negative. - TrueJustice.” I posted both messages and got back on my bike. I couldn’t go back to my dad’s house. And, I had to ditch my phone and buy a burner phone. I took a Lyft ride to a big truck stop on Interstate 80. I walked around looking at the trucks. I found one with some conspiracy theory bumper stickers on the back and walked up to the cab. The driver had a gnarled face and wore mirrored dark glasses. He looked at me suspiciously. I told the guy what was going on, and that I was in real danger from the feds or somebody, and he welcomed me in. I think I made his day. He was going to Phoenix and invited me to come along for the ride. He also wanted to hear all about my TrueJustice posts. It took a few hours before anybody read either one of them. My alter ego had no connections, followers or subscribers since he was just a few hours old. Before long, dozens of people saw it, and then hundreds, and then thousands. The FBI sent a direct message asking me to get in touch with them. I didn’t. Facebook shut down my account on the second day. “X” did not, and the number of people reading my post cruised past a million. Congress set up a special counsel to investigate the whole thing. They really wanted to talk to me, but by then I had purchased a new identity from a guy named Luis who I met in Phoenix. At least for the time being Oscar Morganford didn’t exist. Tony Tantano was my new name. My beard was coming in nicely. I was ready to start a new life. Eventually I figured out how to monetize my “X” account and now TrueJustice brings in more than enough for me to live on. Somebody even came up with a line of clothing, made in the USA, with “TrueJustice” as the logo. They send 10% of sales to me. I’ve hired a manager with that money to investigate other corruption in the government and elsewhere. It looks like the past three presidents are going to go to jail, along with their top advisors and some of their donors, all because of a photograph my father took, probably not realizing the importance of it. I hope a lot of other people go to jail too. Our country shouldn’t be run by corrupt politicians and powerful people who were never elected. It may be too much to hope for, but so far things are looking up.


's writing prompt: You are an aspiring author writing a novel. One day, when your main character starts talking to you, you decide to kill them off because you want to write a "normal" novel. The main character, however, isn't so obliging... Today was looking to be a good morning for Susan. She had her coffee, her laptop, and her favorite writing playlist playing in the background (a mix between gospel music and gangster rap). She told herself today was going to be a productive day of writing, but she didn’t think that was true anymore. To her surprise, her novel was writing itself. Specifically, the dialogue of the main character. It was being typed on her laptop’s screen, but Susan wasn’t doing the typing. “Hi,” said the main character, “you must be God.” “God?” Susan said, puzzled by the idea. “Well, I guess I am sort of your God, I did create you. But you’re not a completely original idea, you were actually based on some of my-” “God, I don’t mean to be rude, but I kind of want to ask you some questions.” Susan felt conflicted. On one hand, her Christian upbringing made it uncomfortable for her to hear someone call her God. But her feminist side felt that it was nice that the main character had looked at her and instantly accepted her as God, instead of asking where the God with the penis was. Deciding that having a big ego wouldn’t be good for an aspiring writer, she finally said, “Just call me Susan.” “Okay, Susan. My first question is what’s my name?” “MC.” “No, I know, but what does MC stand for?” “Main Character.” “...Really?” “It’s temporary.” “It’s just that you’ve already have a bunch of names for the planets, weapons, and even spells-” “Look, names are hard,” she said defensively. “And I’m not even sure what gender you’re going to be or what race. MC is just a placeholder for something else, I promise.” “Alright. My second question is what’s my purpose in life?” “Oh, that’s easy! You’re the main character of my novel!” “Wow! I mean I sort of guessed that from my name, but to be the main character! That’s amazing.” Susan smiled, glad that someone besides her seemed to be excited for her novel. “So, what’s it about?” MC asked. “About?” “Yeah, what’s the plot? The story? Surely you have a basic idea, right?” “Yeah, of course I do,” she lied. “Great, what’s it about? What’s my role in the story?” “Well, let’s see. Where to start? You’re the son- or daughter- of this king- or queen- of this planet. Your dad’s side of the family uses fire magic, and your mom’s side uses ice magic. You grow up thinking you don’t have magic, until you turn 16, then you...” This went on for a painfully long time. Susan went over everything from her fictional setting’s religion to its fast food establishments, but still no real plot whatsoever was in sight. “That sounds very... nice,” MC said (the ellipses weren’t actually there, due to the fact that Susan would’ve been able to see them herself on her screen, so the ellipses here are merely for illustrating that MC thought Susan was full of shit). “But I’m still confused about my whole role in this novel,” they continued. “What do I do exactly with my- what did you call it?” “Aether magic,” she said. “Right, that. Do I use it to help people? Or like defeat an evil emperor?” “Evil emperor? Don’t be ridiculous, MC! This is a very mature novel with complex characters. You do have an antagonist, but he’s morally gray. You can’t really call him a bad guy.” “Really? What’s he like then?” “He’s this emperor with dark magic-” “*Dark* magic?” “And he uses his powers to destroy planets.” “...And?” “Well, I haven’t worked out the details, but the reason why he destroys planets is because his parents died on a planet once.” “That sounds incredibly, unambiguously evil,” they said bluntly. “Hey, I wasn’t defending the guy’s actions!” Susan said, starting to get annoyed. “I’m just trying to explain his evil- his morally gray motivations.” “Right. Sorry if I sound harsh, you’re clearly just starting to write the novel. I’m sure you’ll be able to fill in the gaps as you write more of it. How long have you been writing this anyway? A couple days?” “*5 years*,” Susan mumbled. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that, how long did you say?” “5 years.” “You’ve. Spent. 5. 5. 5 years on this novel? AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN COME UP WITH A NAME FOR ME?!” “...Yes?” MC didn’t respond after that. Susan, deciding that the words written by the MC was enough writing for today, took the day off and binge watched that TV show she’s been meaning to finish for a while. \*\*\* Today was looking to be another good morning for Susan. She had her coffee, her laptop, and her other favorite writing playlist playing in the background (this time a mix between country music and lofi hip hop). She told herself today was going to be a productive day of writing, but she didn’t think that was true anymore. To her surprise, her novel was writing itself. This time, all of the novel was writing itself. Susan began reading. *“Emperor,” they said, trying to keep their voice from trembling. “So this is it, huh? Just you and me. I always knew it was destined to end this way.”* *The Emperor, who usually looked smug, wore a somber expression. He looked intently at Aether, trying hard to remember them as the friend who was like family to him once. But now that was gone. Time had taken away even that from him.* *“We don’t have to do this,” the Emperor said, his voice shaking. “You can still help me end the tyranny.”* *Aether pointed at the Emperor and yelled, “You killed all of those people! Planets are gone because of what you did! My parents, they-”* *“I did what I had to do,” he responded coolly. “Those planets were too dangerous to be kept around. I would’ve never won the war otherwise, and your parents were-”* *“What?” they said angrily. “They were what? Tyrants? Don’t make me laugh,* ***Emperor***.” *“Someone needed to rule.”* *“I agree.”* *Aether drew their sword, the last thing given to them by their parents before their demise.* *“Surely, you don’t think you can kill me with that, do you?” the Emperor scoffed. “I’m in possession of dark magic, Aether. I can destroy planets, what do you think you can do with that?”* *“Nothing,” they said honestly. “But I know you. No matter what you say, I know you still have some of your honor left. And that honor won’t let you kill me with your magic. You’ll fight me with your own sword.”* *The Emperor stood still. He could feel the dark magic calling out to him, telling him that they could help him take care of this nuisance. All he needed to do was snap his fingers, and...* *The Emperor drew his sword. The sword was usually for show, but today it would be used to decide the fate of his empire.* *“I hope you fight well, old friend,” the Emperor said.* *“Me too,” they said, readying their stance.* *They lunged at each other* “What the hell is this, MC?” “I see you’re awake. Surprised you’re up this early considering how late you stayed up trying to finish that show.” “You wrote my story without me? How dare you?” “Technically, it’s *my* story. It is my life after all. Anyway, I thought you’d be thrilled. I’ve written more of this story in one day than you have in 5 years.” “This isn’t even what I was going to write. Aether wasn’t going to be your name, it was going to be your magic!” “Yeah, sorry about that. To be honest with you, I’m not really sure what an Aether is supposed to be. But since it sounded cool, I just used it as a name.” “And the Emperor? Why wouldn’t he use his dark magic against you? It makes no sense!” “No sense?” MC- now Aether- said. “This makes no sense to you? And somehow the ‘morally gray’ guy who blows up planets does?” “Look I’m sorry, but this is unacceptable. *I’m* the writer. I should be the one writing the story.” “Oh, sorry I took over the story you were never going to write!” “Okay, that’s it!” Susan started to furiously type. Aether panicked. “What are you doing?” they asked. “*Aet- MC saw a man with a gun. This man pulled the trigger*” Aether, realizing Susan’s plan, fought back with their own typing. *and they dodged the bullet.* *But then the bullet came back like a boomerang, making its way towards* *Aether, who had drawn their sword and sliced the bullet in half.* *Little did MC know that a meteor would fall* *into the ocean, a safe distance away from Aether.* This went on for a while. Susan, who had fingers and therefore was feeling them cramp, finally gave up. “Okay, okay, you win,” she said. “I’ll stop trying to kill you.” “Jeez, thanks,” Aether said with as much sarcasm they could muster through text. “But I’ll be the one writing the story! Let me pull up my notes and fix-” “About that,” they said nervously. “I kind of deleted it.” “...Youdidwhat?” “Look, you were wasting so much time worldbuilding that you had no time to actually finish your story! I did you a favor by-” “Ispent5yearswritingallofthat” “Susan, are you okay?” “5yearscomingupwithmagicplanetnames” Susan lifted her laptop over her head. Aether typed quickly, desperate to preserve themself. “You don’t have to do this,” they said, realizing how screwed they were. “They were just notes, you could always just-” But it was too late. Susan was no longer looking at the screen. With no hesitation, Susan chucked the laptop against the wall, hearing a satisfying crunch as it made contact. She stared at the laptop on the ground, thinking about what she just did. “Shit,” she said. “What was I thinking?” She looked mournfully at the device. “I can’t believe I just broke my laptop.” “You bitch.” Susan turned around and faced a reflection of herself. Except it wasn’t a reflection. And it couldn’t have been herself, because Susan didn’t remember owning a sword. It dawned on her who the clone might’ve been. “MC?” she asked hesitantly. “My name is Aether,” they said, now somehow feeling angrier about the nickname than the attempted murder. “Don’t move, or I’ll chase you and stab you with this sword.” “The Aether blade.” “Shut the hell up!” Aether walked over towards the laptop. Susan, who hadn’t ran since high school gym class, thought it best not to try escaping. Aether picked up the laptop and set it on the table. They looked shocked as they looked at the screen. They said, “Holy shit, it still works.” “Oh, thank god,” Susan sighed. “I didn’t want to buy another one.” Aether chuckled as they stared at the laptop’s screen. Susan suddenly didn’t feel thankful about her laptop’s durability. Still chuckling, Aether began typing with one hand. “So, how did you manage to escape?” Susan asked awkwardly, feeling a bit like a James Bond villain who had failed to kill with their deathtrap. “It was nothing really. All I did was type, *Aether escapes into the real world*. Good thing I did that before you tried *smashing me out of existence*.” “Oh, that,” Susan tried to say nonchalantly. “That was an accident. My hands... slipped.” “No wonder you can’t write a story,” Aether sighed. “You can’t even tell a convincing lie. Also I can see my reflection on the computer screen. Jesus, how narcissistic can you be to imagine the main character looking exactly like you?” “What are you going to do to me?” “You’ll see soon enough.” \*\*\* Today was another morning for Susan. She had her coffee, her laptop, and no music playing in the background. She told herself today was going to be a productive day of writing, but she didn’t think that was true anymore. To her surprise, her novel was already written. All of it. “I guess I finished it,” she said in disbelief. *Strange*, she thought. *Why was I just talking out loud just now?* She shrugged. What did it matter? She finished a book! Something she’s been dreaming of doing since middle school. Deleting the notes was painful, but apparently it led to her finally writing the book she had always wanted to write. She smiled, happier than she had been in a long time. *Aether stood over the Emperor. They had won, fair and square. Winning the duel made them the Emperor now, all they needed to do was kill...* *Aether dropped their sword.* *“What are you doing?” the Emperor said, almost sounding angry for having been spared. “You have a chance to rule, why don’t you?”* *“I don’t want it to happen this way. I’m not like you, I’m not a* ***killer***.” *The Emperor scowled at Aether. Then he bowed his head.* *“You would’ve been the better ruler,” he said bitterly.* *“Maybe,” they admitted, “but everyone deserves a second chance.”* *The Emperor looked at his old friend with a confused expression on his face.* *“Look, you did what you did. You can’t change that, but you can still make things better. You can still choose your own path, write your own story. And if you’re worried about slipping up again, don’t worry. I’ll be there to watch over you. And I will stab you if you go the wrong way.”* *The Emperor smiled and said, “You came here with a sword, beat me, and now you’re sparing me so I can ‘write my own story’? Even though I tried killing you multiple times? You really are a softie.”* *“What can I say?” Aether said, also smiling. “I’m a fan of happy endings.


“Isn’t it a beautiful day Emily?” the old man said, holding his hiking sticks, one in each hand. He hit the trail head with a spring in his step that he hadn’t felt in decades. He carried a Blue Northern backpack, the same one he’d used to scale K-2 fifty years earlier when he was a spritely thirty year old man. It was cold out, ten degrees, not counting a northern wind that blew around fifteen knots but the sky was clear, so perfectly blue that it stung the old man’s eyes just to look at it. His heart quickened a beat at the sight of the mountain in front of him, the same mountain he and Emily had hiked together on their honeymoon sixty years ago. He smelled the pine in the crispy, pure air and he heard a flock of geese squawking above, heading south as fast as they could. He also heard music - someone nearby had a radio and Bob Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ was playing. “Do you hear that Emily?” the old man shouted. “Remember when you and I danced to that song at Frankie and Elizabeth’s wedding?” “How could I ever forget,” Emily said. “You wore that godawful cowboy hat you had bought in Texas when you were going through your cowboy phase.” The old man chuckled. “I guess I’ve had a few phases now haven’t I?” the old man said. “I never told you this,” Emily said with a wink. “But I threw that old hat away not long after the wedding.” “Why you devil,” the old man said playfully. He grabbed Emily and hugged her. “That’s why I love you so much. You never could keep a secret from me. Even though some secrets I guess take you sixty years to confess.” As the Dylan song played the old man began to sing and Emily put her hands to her ears. “You’re killing me!” she shouted. The old man grabbed her and wrapped her in an embrace and they danced on the trail, swaying to the music as the wind rustled through the trees. A young couple coming off the trail head saw the old man dancing and they chuckled. He danced as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The old man was oblivious to them as they approached him. “You look like you’re having a wonderful day,” the young man said. Startled, the old man stopped singing and dancing and it took him a minute to get his bearings. “I’m having the best day of my life,” the old man said. “I haven’t felt this great in years.” “Make sure you’re careful up there,” the young man said. “A front is coming through and snow’s coming.” “We’ll be fine,” the old man said. “Emily and I have hiked this mountain a hundred times. We came here on our honeymoon before your parents were probably even born. Isn’t that right my dear?” Emily smiled at him and winked at him again. “Are you sure you’re ok sir?” the young man asked. “Absolutely,” the old man said. “We’re just going hike up and come right back down. You folks have a grand day.” With that the old man turned with Emily and began his hike up the steep trail. He wore a pair of his old khaki hiking pants with long johns underneath. The pants were loose fitting, his belt tightened to the last notch but they still sagged. His jacket was an old goose down filled thing that had once been orange but had long since faded to a dull brown. He wore a stocking cap to cover his head that was covered with the wispiest thin of white hair. “I should have thrown that jacket away too come to think of it,” Emily said. “That’s about the sorriest excuse for a coat I think I’ve ever seen.” The old man laughed. “I can forgive the hat my dear,” he said. “But getting rid of this jacket would have been unforgiveable.” It was his turn to give her a wink. They turned and started up the rocky trail. The pines towered above them and there were patches of snow scattered about in the shadows of the trees. They were about a quarter mile up the trail when they came upon a little lake that had still not frozen over. “Would you look at that?” he said to Emily. “Remember when this was just a stream running through here? Now it’s a damned lake.” “Darling,” Emily said. “Sixty years is a rather long time.” She paused a moment as if trying to find a memory. “I seem to recall us catching quite a few fish when we were here.” “We did!” the old man exclaimed. “I taught you how to fly fish.” “I also seem to recall that I caught a few more fish than you,” she smiled and batted her eyes and the old man felt the butterflies flit through his belly like he did when he saw her at the soda fountain all those years ago. “Now don’t go rubbing it in,” the old man said. “I also seem to remember a girl who didn’t have the stomach for cleaning all those fish.” Emily punched him in the shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. She put her arm around his shoulders as they soldiered on up the path. They came up to the base of steep cliff that soared at least three hundred feet straight above them. The trail they planned to take was a series of switchbacks right up that mountain. The local Coloradan’s called it Break Neck Mountain. His thoughts floated aimlessly through his head and the picture of his son Frankie kept coming to the top. He felt a surge of sadness grip him. “Do you still miss him?” the old man asked. As if she could read his mind she nodded her head and the old man thought he saw a tear at the corner of her eye. “I think about him all the time,” Emily said. “God took him too early,” the old man said. Emily hugged him tighter and he felt his knees go weak. The memories of Frankie flooded his mind and he started to weep. Emily wiped away his tears and held his face in her hands and stared deep into his eyes. “Remember the silly way he used to dance?” Emily asked. “The way his used to gyrate those hips? Remember those silly faces he used to make when you gave him the sour balls from the vending machine at the grocery store? Remember the look in his eyes when we held him just before he passed?” The old man nodded and thought his heart would burst at the love he felt from her at that moment. “It’s important to remember. It keeps him alive in your heart. It's how we know we're not alone.” They stood and held each other and the old man had no idea how much time had passed. They started moving up the trail again and the old man noticed the sky was darkening and the air was colder. A storm was coming and his legs were starting to hurt. He needed a quick break. He sat on a rock and Emily sat beside him. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and reached in and took out two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Snow began to fall in horizontal sheets. “I made your favorite lunch,” the old man said. “Jiff’s peanut butter with some Smucker’s Strawberry Jam.” Emily smiled at him but she made no effort to reach for the sandwich. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked her. She gazed into his eyes. The sky grew even darker and the old man began to hear wolves howling somewhere close by. “I hope you know how much I love you,” Emily said. The wind stiffened and the old man shivered. He pulled his arms in close to his body. Emily didn’t look cold at all. And that’s when he heard a faint voice in his head. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in years. He used to hear it all the time - it used to be loud and clear and it would speak to him whenever he thought about something, or read something, or whenever he tried to reason out a problem. “Emily’s been dead for twenty years,” the voice said to him. The old man shook his head and Emily was fading in front of him like mist. She mouthed one final word before she was gone forever. “Hurry.” The old man screamed into the darkening sky. The wolves were closer now and he could hear them howling into the wind as the wind blew what felt like near hurricane force winds. “Where have I been for the past twenty years?” the old man asked. “I don’t know,” the voice in his head said. “But it was dark there. And it was silent.”


The beasts beyond the veil whickered, moaned and trailed their quarry across the floodplain, eager for the shield to break. Five-year-old Juto clung to Mariah’s hipbone near the edge of the dome, anxious. His eyes flitted from one aberration to the next. They were caked in green twilight. “Mama, what if they -“ “They cannot. Never. They can only try, and fail.” She'd seen her fair share of shield breaks. She knew death. This was a necessary lie. “Not true,” replied an eavesdropping traveler, fast-stepping the moist loam. His name was Lukas. He’d introduced himself to another woman traveling in the caravan earlier. His uncomfortable advances forced his reassignment opposite her in their group. “If our delightful Aurator fails, the curtain falls, and the beasts have their meal.” As if in reply, a bipedal bear-like aberration that bobbled on its haunches like a behemoth toddler distended its jaw and shrieked like a banshee. Mariah felt the cry run down her spine. She forced herself to remain tall. Her son could never see her fear. “But that won’t happen, Mama? Right?” “Right, my dear.” Mariah lifted Juto against herself. “This man is base. He speaks unnecessarily.” Juto looked at the Aurator. She was perhaps twelve, with bouncing locks of golden hair tinged green by the pale aurora above. All Aurators had a color to their protective aura; her veil was the gold of a Kindness Aurator. Tiny, spark-like flecks emanated a lightless dome around her. Beneath the dome, the beasts could not approach. They otherwise walked in twilight; adding torches would attract more. Juto did not know her name; this was not allowed. The four-person guard flanking her wore chainmail. It jingled pleasantly, when you could hear it over the snarling creatures. The night wore on, and grew thin. Soon, a vermilion sun would attract more beasts; the ones who could not see as well in the dim would emerge. The more beasts there were, the more likely an Aurator could lose focus and falter. Mariah knew this. Thanks to Lukas, now Juto knew it, too. A magnetic, aggressive tension grew between Mariah and Lukas. She could hear his footsteps somewhere close behind. She desired to cross the veil with Juto, and take a new place on the opposite side. Alas, they traveled with a full company, and placement was assigned; there was nowhere to go. When Mariah saw her boy squinting east behind them the emerging day, she squeezed his shoulder. “We’re almost to the next town. Can you walk?” "Yes, mama." She set him down. “What is our next Aurator mama?” Juto asked, reaching out and taking her hand. “Greed, little man,” replied Lukas, sniffling and readjusting his rucksack. “Best have a tribute. This one’s a real dragon. You’ll see his wealth-chamber. S’how he keeps his aura so strong. I hear they’re even building out on his perimeter. That’s the power of real faith. ” Mariah remained silent. “Is he right, mama?” “Yes.” She squeezed his shoulder, trying to will her son into silence. “Can’t we stay here? With the Kindness Aurator?” “We’d travel for always if we did. And we’d soon be broke.” “Can’t you be a seamstress for her? And for other travelers?” “My work requires stillness, sweet child.” “And don’t forget,” added an amused Lukas. You could hear the smile in his voice. And he was loud. Too loud. “The Aurators of virtue, like our Kindness here, they keep the beasts back in a small area. The Aurators of sin keep still and settle down. They’re the big veils. S’long as they’re happy. Better life for you, eh, lass?” Mariah’s blood boiled. Juto was a good boy. He didn’t need to hear this. She did not turn back, nor did she acknowledge the man. She wouldn’t. She hoped there would punishment for him in the upcoming Greed veil. “A thing with pretty hair like yours, bet the Aurator of Lust last town had a proper field day with you.” He laughed. It was a cruel, stilted thing. She never had me, Mariah thought. “We didn’t stay - I don’t - I don’t owe you an explanation -“ Mariah’s breath fell from her. I offered her nothing. I told her as such. I worked for her. But she kicked us out anyhow. I thought we'd be safe. Tears fell from Mariah’s cheeks. The Aurator thrived on the happiness of those around her. Safely going from one place to the next was an easy way to bring relief to people, and thus, joy. She - along with most traveling Aurators - did not speak to those she escorted. The woman with the boy was in pain. The Aurator stole a glance. She felt that pain. She absorbed it. Pity is a dangerous thing - it makes the mind drift. So, her aura began to shrink. The assembly included the Aurator, her four guards, and two-dozen persons. All stood within the 20-foot radius of the Aurator’s veil; her golden will-o-wisps. When her energy retracted, the beasts could sense the change and attacked the periphery. A moss-covered tortoise with no eyes charged with frightening speed. It extended its neck an improbable distance and clamped onto a man’s kneecap, crushing it like an apple. He opened his mouth to scream and a scaled ferret with an exposed spine climbed all the way in, bulging his neck and ending him with a shudder before he fell to the earth. A loping vulture with shredded wings leaped onto a pack mule’s neck and bit deep. The bear attacked its rear, peeling its flesh while it wailed. The other stragglers collapsed inward, shoving for the center. Some dropped their belongings. The guards drew their weapons and bellowed orders to keep back from the Aurator. Still, the mare’s tails of light which made the aura continued to retract. The radius was now half its previous size. Another man was shoved - Juto thought he saw Lukas do it - so that his hand flailed beyond the aura. Before he could pull it back, a colossal snake clasped the hand and yanked, tossing him beyond the aura. He was swarmed by all manner of vermin and silenced. “You!” Shouted one of the guards. Juto couldn’t see who. “I’ll put you down myself!” ”No,” spoke the Aurator. Her voice was simultaneously three voices; hers, her power’s, and something else. “He lives. We must all live.” A sense of calm and hush fell over the crowd. The clamor abated. In a slow, steady push, the aura held fast. Beasts close to the gossamer bulwark grew still. The only sound beyond the Aurator’s steady breathing was the guttural, distant argument of two large beasts dueling over a loose limb. Slowly, the aura grew again. The beasts at its perimeter scrabbled back. The guards gently pressed the crowd outward, realigning the caravan around the Aurator. More than one shot a look at Lukas, and even at Juto. Silence was not law when traveling with an Aurator, but conversation was frowned upon. And for good reasons. One of the guards broke formation and stepped over. He was older; a veteran. He wore a beard of some dark shade, with a patch of snow-white down his chin. In the glinting light, he was sweating beneath his helmet, which covered the bridge of his nose. He kneeled down to Juto. “Hello,” he said softly. “I am Camalin. What is your name?” Juto clung to Mariah’s hip-bone. “Juto.” “Well, Juto. I would like to ask of you a favor. Would that be okay?” Juto nodded. Camalin looked up at Mariah, then back down. He had kind eyes. “This is your mother, yes?” Juto nodded. “That makes you her son, yes?” Juto nodded. “You can keep a secret, yes?” Juto nodded. Camalin leaned in and whispered. “I’m somebody’s son, too. We all are sons and daughters. But our Aurator? She is my daughter. She is very sweet. Very kind. Will you show her how kind you can be?” “Yes,” Juto whispered. “Don’t speak again. Not another word. Not until we’re in the next veil.” Camalin leaned back. Before he rose, Juto saw his eyes. They were pitch-black with anger. Juto’s blood ran cold. He swallowed. Camalin blinked and returned to a contented state. He gave a slight and courteous bow to Mariah when he rose again. He then marched over to the man who started it all. He had crossed to the opposite side. Everyone faced forward, forced to stare a pack of wild dogs with bulbous growths on their backs. They rubbed against each other at the edge, whining. Mariah squeezed Juto’s shoulder twice in rapid succession. That meant everything will be all right. Juto chanced a look at Camalin. Lukas seemed deflated by the discussion. Juto wondered if it was a crime to do what he did. Then, Camalin returned to his place at his daughter’s side. The aura looked healthy once again. The Aurator took the first step. Her attending guards followed. So did everyone else. They walked on for an hour. A crescent of amber emerged in the north. Mariah saw it first. It lanced the greenish boil of the landscape. She tapped Juto on his shoulder, and pointed it out. Juto’s eyes widened. This was a beautiful thing he’d been waiting for. It was a Nirvana city; Lukas had been wrong. Juto knew, but wouldn’t dare correct an adult. The best Aurators were not sinful. A Nirvana city was where many powerful, virtuous Aurators lived, overlapping their shields. They built walls, and traveled freely within them. It was expensive to get in, so most people couldn’t. They were so powerful, they glowed. That was the endgame. That’s what it was all for. Juto looked back up at his mother and saw her determined gaze fixed on the city in the distance. It was not to be. Not today. The light of the Nirvana city soon became blotted by the rising sun. The landscape would have been beautiful, if not for the newly-emerging horrors. Their long, twisted shadows were only half as haunting as the creatures themselves. The large growths on the pack of wild dogs were a cascade of warts. Even the tips of their tails weren’t spared. The bear-like horror had stayed behind to feast, along with the snake and the turtle. A large pig with a distended belly dragged itself along the ground; it left a trail of bile in its wake. Innumerable insects and rodents with all manner of pestilence trailed them, too. They crested a small hillock, and their destination appeared below. A half-bowl valley along a weak river was bathed in a sickly, green nimbus. A series of shacks marked its bounds, with a large church at the center of the emanation. Its windows were glazed all colors, brightened by lamps within. Around it, the largest buildings stood, but they, too, left something to be desired. Few beasts walked its perimeter. In the distance, a pink globe moved off toward a forest in the distance, flanked by a few beasts. Mariah spotted wagons among the group: a supplier’s caravan. So, there was some organization here. This would be far from the worst place Mariah and Juto had been forced to call home, even if temporarily. The pink aura was from an Aurator of Chastity. Down the hill they went, ignoring the beasts as well as they could. The Aurator held fast. Soon they were just beyond city limits, where a small contingent of armed and armored men halted them. As the Aurator of Kindness’s golden veil intersected with the viridian haze of Greed, it was absorbed. “We’ll see your papers before you enter Mamner’s domain.” Juto looked up at Mariah, and she shook her head. It was quite uncommon to know the name of the Aurator. It was not an issue worth breaching. They took their place in a steady line. A routine Juto knew well followed: the questions were always the same. What do you do? Were you invited? How long will you be staying? Do you have dependents? What do they do? Always the same. Juto would be sweeping out a chimney by day’s end. They crossed the veil. Juto looked back at Camalin, and his daughter. They were the last to enter, but would be first to the church, escorted by the entire contingent of guards. They would pay tribute to Mamner before everyone else. There was no need to actually keep guards on the perimeter; where would criminals go? The wildlands beyond the veil? “Let’s go find something to eat, my sweet boy.” Mariah breathed a subtle sigh of relief. They’d made it. She was safe. She looked up through their new, green aegis, and smiled. She hoped Juto’s father was up there, smiling back. “Okay, mama.” “I’m sure you have questions.” “No, mama.” Juto’s words stung Mariah. Tonight was his first taste of death. She spent last hour rehearsing answers. Her son was growing quickly. Children had to grow quickly in this rotting world. In a way, that terrified her most of all.


First time poster here! I wrote this as part of an English exercise. There was a word count limitation on the project but this is what I came up with. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Royal purple curtains shone like pillars of vibrancy against a grim, windswept sky. The Prince’s room was like this much of the time; an oasis of color in a grey desert. In the distance, a line of orange illuminated the horizon. In it a thousand silhouettes danced and sang, each day growing larger, closer. Ten years ago the sky would have been blue, before the ash blotted out the sky the way black poison clots blood. The Prince woke up to his greatest fear, the terror that had haunted his living days for sixteen years. The great crimson beast lingered over his bed, its unblinking black eyes gazing lifelessly down at his cloudy blue ones. If it had been moving, it would have scuttled around on eight spindly legs. But the true terror of the beast was in its massive claws, which extended nearly to the edge of the Prince’s bed. The bright red extremities had many times assaulted him, each time nearly snipping his body before, with a final strike, his head was severed and it rolled back into the land of consciousness. The Prince had pressed himself against the side of his bed opposite the great beast and it seemed almost inevitable that the monster would finally claim his life, when his door was swung open. In his open doorway stood his most esteemed servant, a look of concern on her face. The servant went about her duties, assisting the Prince and he hesitantly let himself be cleaned and dressed, his eyes fixed on the unmoving crimson beast. As he was ushered out of his room, he glanced back, the monster still standing, its beady eyes staring unwaveringly at him. The council regarding the Prince’s economy was found by him to be a bore. The economy was in ruin, and the Prince lounged lazily as his advisors quarreled over lost odds. The council broke and the Prince went to go rest as he was brought his supper, the idea of his flaming pursuer ever lingering in his mind. When his council reconvened, this time to discuss the war with the North, thoughts of the crimson beast would not exit the Prince’s mind. One particular general made an unnecessary fuss over the Prince and the loss of an army due to his inaction. The stout, old man was carted off to be shot by his own soldiers and the council was dismissed. The servant returned the Prince back to his bed chambers, his majesty hesitating to enter as if he anticipated some sort of eldritch horror waiting for him. She pushed the door open, revealing to the Prince his freshly made bed. The Prince stopped for a moment, his eyes fixed on a spot on his wall. The servant followed his eyes to one of the stained glass murals. A massive lobster was the focus in a beautiful, underwater scene. Understanding the young Prince’s fright, she took his hand and offered him some soothing words. “Don’t worry great Prince, you’ll be safe here. That lobster isn’t real.” The Prince calmly dismissed her, setting himself into his bed with an aura of newfound confidence. He was a great prince, he was safe there, and lobsters were not real.


So much time had passed since the last time i smelled the man sitting across from me. To call him pungent wouldn't be quite accurate. Imagine a room full of charred meat bathing in a pool of hot blood. "Haven't you gotten enough from me?" I lifted my glass of whiskey to my lips. The man's voice came back at me smooth as silk but sharp as glass. "Well, today things are different. It is I who needs you." Here I thought I was the blind one. Years ago I was down on my luck and called on this man in exchange for my soul. One detail they leave out is that this can only be accomplished by removing your eyes, the windows to the soul. "What do I get out of this?" I intentionally kept my expression indifferent. The man wasted no time with his response. "Freedom." I fell back off the chair as my vision abruptly returned. Even in the dimly lit bar I had to shield my eyes. I could see... I could see! I heard the creaking of wood as the man climbed up from the chair. He held out his hand to help me up. The long black nails scratched my wrist as I accepted it. "Nice to see you again Lucifer." I said as I stared into the pools of tar he had for eyes. "No need to be formal with me." He sat back on the chair. "This is a simple trade just like before. " As Lucifer sipped his drink, I retrieved a locket tucked beneath my shirt. Even though my vision had been gone for years, I carried a picture of my family with me. After I sold my soul, I left them for their own protection. Now I could see the beautiful faces of my wife and daughter again. Lucifer began to speak. "Another client of mine has violated our terms. I need you to take care of them." I stifled a laugh. "So you think I'm an assassin? I know the rules anyway, if I take their life my soul will just be yours again." "No, the terms don't apply today. Heaven is blind." Lucifer emptied his glass with one final sip. I stared at the locket again. Finally, I could return to my family, things could be normal again. I could already see the look on my daughter Hailey's face as she saw me walk into the room. How could I possibly say no? "I'll do it." I said. Lucifer smiled and raised one hand to my forehead. The scent of the night air filled my nostrils, the bar melting into a dark street. In front of me stood a small house. The night was unnaturally dark. Lucifer's handiwork without a doubt. I began walking slowly towards the house, a long sacrificial dagger clutched in my hand. Lucifer was still old fashioned in his methods apparently. The front door squeaked ever so slightly as I entered the sleeping house. The scent of cinnamon greeted me. I dodged shoes and toys as I made my way towards the stairs. I stopped at the foot of them noticing that someone was asleep on the couch. A child. "Sick fuck." I whispered under my breath. How was I any better than him? If I didn't do this I'd go back to being alone and blind, drinking my life away. That was reason enough for me to continue. I ascended the stairs. I entered the room where my target lie sleeping. Inching closer and closer to the bed I raised the dagger. I loomed over the mound of blankets before plunging the dagger downward as hard as I could. Moonlight illuminated the room the very second the dagger struck, no more unnatural darkness. I caught sight of my target's face and staggered back as my heart sunk. It was my wife. Her eyes were open and she was fully conscious as I embraced her bleeding body. She turned to me and smiled, a smile laced with pain. "John, I can't believe it's really you." She was still smiling. "I'm so sorry my love." I was fighting back tears. The room was suddenly illuminated as though consumed by fire. I turned to see Lucifer standing by the doorway. Rage boiled from within me and I charged at him. He lifted a hand stopping me in my tracks. "We had a deal John, and so did your wife and I." His voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. "All she wanted was for you to see each other once again. She knew it would come at a price." "I would have never agreed to this!" I screamed in frustration. Lucifer laughed a cold, mocking tone. "It was your choice not to ask questions. Now I really must be leaving John." Lucifer crossed the room and approached my wife. She turned to me and smiled once again as a single tear rolled down her cheek. "I love you John. " She blew me a kiss. "Hailey is going to be so excited to see you." Lucifer raised a hand to her face obscuring her eyes. Her breathing stopped. The room illuminated once again as Lucifer vanished leaving me all alone once again.


The roots hanging from above trembles, the earth kicking down dirt and ash. “They’re still dropping seed bombs? After all this time?” Susan asks, her browning hands to the fire. “Yeah, I guess,” I say, staring back into the flames. The kindling pops like snapping bones. “I don’t know who or what could be left up there.” She sniffles, wipes brown snot across the back of her hand. “Who knows? Can’t be many though, if any. How many years has it been?” I try to remember when the bombs started dropping, when roots and vines overtook cities, when wood replaced bone, dirt instead of blood. Fail to. Probably the fumes screwed up my brain more than I know. “Who knows?” I parrot. We sit in silence for a while. Another bomb drops somewhere in the distance. More dirt falls over us, the dense underground forest surrounding us. It disturbs some of the Dwellers. Their dim emerald eyes appear in the gloom within the depths of the boles. But they don’t come out. Not a fan of light, we learned. But I remember before we learned. Susan and I sprinting down to the subway canals after the world fell. People -- before we nicknamed Dwellers -- chasing after us. Bark skin. Gnarled, rooting fingers. Vines spilling from their mouths. The fumes, bombs; whatever it was turned them into catalysts that only want one thing: to create more of themselves. “Go Green,” we said, mockingly, remembering the Clean Power movement. It’s not so funny anymore-- “Get some more kindling,” she says. “It’s getting low.” I sigh, standing, brush the small dirt piles from my lap. “How much?” I don’t know why I ask this every time. A bad habit, I guess. “As much as you can carry,” she repeats, staring at me over the fire, the flames reflecting in her greening eyes. I step over the stump I sat on, walk the small path to the firewood. Dead Dwellers lay in a heap below a yawning opening in the ceiling. We never found out whose been dumping them down here, but it doesn’t matter, really. We both get what we want. I snap brittle arms and legs from bodies, tear fingers and toes and shove them in my pockets. Once my arms are full, I return to the fire, toss a couple on, set the others nearby. Sit back down. “Feels good,” she says. “It’s getting colder.” I never admit it aloud, but it’s not. Down here, it’s warm. Almost suffocating. The dense forest’s fumes forming some type of greenhouse effect. But Susan and I aren’t the same anymore... Her eyes are greener, her hands browner, her hair’s receding, revealing bark-like flesh. It’s only been a couple minutes but the disease works fast. The flames lick the air. Kindling cracks, pops. I dread when I’ll have to toss her onto the flames, too. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


(Author's Note: Reader discretion is advised! The following piece contains mentions of suicide and mental illness. Please note that this is all fiction! If you are an individual struggling with any of the aforementioned, please know that there are resources! You are not alone!) Lawrence Bradford sat silently with his hands neatly folded across his lap, moccasins locked parallel to each other and pulled inward, like the unassuming character he was. Dressed in a frayed cashmere coat and long trousers, Lawrence shifted in his plush cushion to peer at the figure before him. It was only the fire that crackled beside him and the howling, white wind outside that broke the stillness of the October evening. The weather is quite dismal out there. It would be difficult to see anything! Lawrence mused to himself. Lawrence scanned the room with his gray eyes. His arched nose and furrowed brows gave him a more pronounced look of concern than usual. It had been three months since he had frequented this office, due to Mrs. Bradford’s continuous prompts. “Dr. Lenning is the most esteemed physician in all of Emsworth. Vivian’s god brother had some ghastly visions, but after seeing the doctor, he was back to his normal self in no time. Oh, do pay him a visit! He’s right up the street!” Mrs. Bradford had urged. It turned out Dr. Lenning’s office was right around the corner, three doors down from St. Mary’s Cathedral on Howden Street, a short distance from the Bradfords’ flat. Lawrence was to meet him weekly, at a quarter till seven, just after he had left the school he taught at. Being a school teacher was far from the career he had dreamed of - instead, Lawrence had always wanted to be an architect. Drafting tall scrapers and bizarre structures in his schoolwork as a young boy, this fanciful imagination was what caused most of his beratement as a child. But because of a fatal accident of the late Mr. Bradford when Lawrence was still a schoolboy, he had settled on a more easily-accessible occupation. After the passing, the other students often taunted him, “Oh, look! Lawrence is still drawing houses!” and “You’ll never be able to become an architect, you guttersnipe! All you are thinking of is your imagination!” “Mr. Bradford, I understand that your slumber has not improved?” Dr. Lenning inquired, snapping Lawrence back into the present. The doctor was young - a product of years of shaping in an aristocratic, old family from the States. In the eyes of Lawrence, everything about him was blatant - there was nothing to hide and nothing to lose. There was no meaning behind those cold, blue eyes and Lawrence found himself curiously loathing every meeting with him, though he had no prior animose encounters with the young American. “Er, y-yes. That’s true,” replied Lawrence. “And why would that be? Last week you mentioned that the terrors were getting more severe. Is there anything in your life that is requiring much strain?” “Er...” Conversations with Dr. Lenning were never easy. It seemed almost impossible to describe his nightly visions to someone that barely seemed interested. And for the past three months, there was nothing but stagnant conversation and the same axiomatic advice from Dr. Lenning. “Tomorrow is a new day. Rid yourself of the thoughts.” But, Lawrence was hounded by the same dream continuously, night after night, terrifying him and forcefully engraving it into his memory. Every dream started with Lawrence walking down Howden Street. He would gaze longfully at the intricate patterns on the buildings that he had sketched as a child. The Greek Corinthian columns, each splendidly ornate with furnishings and surrounded with uniform fenestrations like squares in a lattice. Each brick in the wall was meaningful and inserted with care. The steps to each entrance were carefully designed to welcome the occupant, with a feeling of benevolence, warmth, and connection. A bridge into a new world under the arch of a doorframe. And alas - the cathedral! St. Mary’s Cathedral was hallowed, in his eyes. An air of importance and gravity emanated from the Trinity that was laid embellished on the heavy doorframe. The glass-stained windows several stories high were what captivated Lawrence the most. He imagined what he would see once he peered out of the multicolored facets. Perhaps he would see a new perspective on his life or even better, see another chance for him to start again. The austere beauty of such delicate fragments shrouded the entirety of the establishment with an air of mystique. A haven for worshippers, a solace for wanderers, and a resting place for the vagabonds. A home to all. The large bell from the cathedral would toll seven times, an indication for Lawrence to hurry along home. Alerted, he would turn the corner as the bell rang, heel-and-toeing along the backside of the cathedral, his heartbeat matching the drums of his footsteps. DONG Looking up, he would see movement in the Cathedral. How curious! He would think. DONG As he scampered along, he would see it was a window opening. The image of cherubs and seraphs trumpeting would catch the light of the setting sun. DONG Lawrence would halt once he realized that someone was climbing out of it looking possessed and transfixed by a spirit. DONG The man up above, several stories in the air would look left then right, as Lawrence would stand frozen in place watching this strange ritual. DONG Lawrence would cry up at the man, who would now be looking to the heavens as if to pray for one last reconciliation, to prevent him from doing anything unspeakable, especially in a place so sacred. DONG Like a worn handkerchief, the man would fall down weightlessly to the cobblestone road, producing a horrible squelching noise from the impact. Lawrence would rush over to the man, now spooling in a pool of his own blood. Adrenaline rushing and with outstretched hands, he would reach out to see if there was any life in the person laid before him to salvage. But there would be an object looming closer to Lawrence. Rolling on the stones. A bloody mess, Leaving a trail like a rolling, open bottle of red wine gurgling its contents onto a white carpet. A head. DONG A head that reflected the same expression as the spectator that stood before it. Both entities had the same gray eyes, arched noses, and furrowed brows. And from ground to sky, there was a resemblance that could not go unnoticed. The resemblance was, in fact, uncanny. Lawrence had just witnessed his own suicide. And he had to relive the whole thing every night. “Mr. Bradford, are you listening to me?” the crisp voice of Dr. Lenning penetrated Lawrence’s thoughts. “Oh, y-yes yes... Oh, I mean n-no I didn’t hear what you said,” Lawrence replied, hurriedly. “I was saying, Mr. Bradford,” the doctor cleared his throat, “If you want to continue these meetings, I’m going to need you to, per se, open up a bit more. I want to find the root of this... “vision” you have.” This angered Lawrence. He had put himself to great lengths to even confide in this stranger, and yet he still wanted more from his weak heart. The toll of living the same scene over and over again without a break was already draining, but to have to describe the experience out loud was destructive to his fragile mentality. He had to watch his own soul drain out from the whites of his eyes in his sleep, for Heaven’s sake. “Mr. Bradford, I know I can assist you. I just need to know a bit more about you and we, as a team, will head in the right direction. However, at the moment, you are being... uncooperative which brings challenges for both of us. I realize that talking about you seeing your own death may be... frightening, but I need you to think like an adult . All you are thinking of is your imagination,” the doctor chuckled. Lawrence had snapped. The storm outside had settled with only a light drizzle of rain remaining. The clouds were clearing up and the setting sun loomed in the horizon. The sky was blessed with a rainbow that stretched across the office’s trio of glass windows. DONG The bells of St. Mary’s Cathedral had rung, signaling for the schoolchildren at the park to race home for supper. DONG Lawrence, inside Dr. Lenning’s office, stood up, wordlessly. His eyes were glazed over and were fixated on the beam outside the window. DONG “Mr. Bradford! Are you listening to me?” the doctor yelled. DONG “You know, all my life, I wanted to be somebody. I had dreams too, you know,” Lawrence whispered, creeping closer to the window, sunshine scintillating off of his transfixed, gray-hued eyes. DONG “But one day, God decided to snatch it all away from me. And look what I’m left with?” Lawrence let out a chuckle, which grew into a full-bellied howl. He was uncontrollable. Insane. “Mr. Bradford, I don’t understand-,” the doctor started as he cautiously stood. “Mr. Bradford was my father’s name! I’m Lawrence. And I’m going to be someone one day!” “Erm- Lawrence, why don’t you sit back down and we can talk-” “NIGHTMARES!” Lawrence spat back at the doctor, which caused him to fall back into his seat. DONG “My dreams have all died! I’m left with only NIGHTMARES!” “My, my, doctor! What splendid windows you have! You can see everything from this height! And look- a rainbow! I remember seeing rainbow windows somewhere...” Lawrence inched forward and stared out the window. And then everything happened so quickly. He threw open the windows and climbed out of the window frame. “Mr. Bradford! Lawrence! NO!” the doctor scrambled out of his seat to pull him back... DONG But it was too late. Lawrence Bradford had stared at the rainbow outside of the window, waiting to see if he could see a new perspective on his life. But instead, he saw a glimpse of his own reflection. In his eyes, he was not a schoolteacher, a husband, a son. He was a nobody in the world. So he threw open the windows to see if he could have just one more chance at something great. He looked to the left, then right, then finally, up. But there was nothing outside those windows. So he jumped.


How many different ways do you want me to say the same damn thing? You've listened to me, you've recorded me in a video, you had me speak with a psychiatrist, you even recorded me on tape for Christ's sake! I can't tell you the truth any clearer than I already have. But fine. I'll humor you. If I play along with your stupid games, will you please help me? Look, I know I'm not the best person. I know I've made mistakes. I realize that it doesn't make me look any better for me to tell you that I've been sleeping with his wife, but I need you to understand that I'm not lying to you. He doesn't know it's been me. We've been really careful so he doesn't find out. And it's not like I made the first move. *She* came on to *me*. I can't be held responsible for that! It's his fault he spends all his time at the office. Look, it's better if it's me rather than some stranger, right? She has *needs,* and it's not my fault that he can't meet those needs! I shouldn't be punished for that! I know how this sounds, okay? I really have been a good friend to him for the most part. I convinced Jeremy to go to that "exhibition" thing at Progenitor Labs so he would be out of the house for a few hours. He enjoys that science shit. I was thinking of *him*. I was his best man at his wedding! I'm the reason he even met her. I listen to his bullshit problems all the time, and maybe I deserve something for that, right? Whatever. This stormtrooper you left in here with me seems upset that I'm taking so long to write it down. I'll humor you one more time. Then I need you to protect me. I need you to put him in a cell or put me in a cell or get a goddamn SWAT team to get me out of here or put me in witness protection or something. You have to help me. It's your *job,* right? I know what my taxes go toward. I took Katy to the hospital to see him after Progenitor's meltdown three weeks ago. Jeremy seemed *fine*. A little beat up around the edges, but he *seemed* fine. He just looked happy to see her. He was there for two weeks. I visited him with her every single day. Jeremy got out of the hospital after those two weeks, and I knew right away that something was wrong. He's my best friend; it would be hard to miss if something wasn't right with him. He kept talking about how Katy had been distant for a long time. I asked him to elaborate, and he said he could tell that she was pulling away from him and he was going to find out why. I knew how upset he would be if he found out it was me, so I offered to help him. I could steer him away from any evidence of it being me. I was confident... but with hindsight... maybe I was a little too confident. His little "investigation" lasted for a week. I had told Katy that he thought something was up, and we were taking extra steps to be sure he wouldn't know. He tried every trick in the book, and I "helped" him because I'm his *best* friend. I know I am. We hired the private investigator, that skeevy guy on Blake and West if you know him. We did the stakeout. We tried checking who she was calling in their phone records. Obviously, none of that turned up anything. I'm not stupid. I know you want me to tell you why you found me standing over that... that mess. I'm getting to that. Fine. You want to know something I haven't told you yet? She went to that suburb to buy drugs. We like to smoke a little something before we "do the deed". It gives the climax this extra boost that I just can't explain. I know that admitting to a crime like this would seem like a bad idea, but that's how serious I am. It's not like weed is illegal in our state anymore. I know that it's illegal to buy on the street, but it's cheaper, and the lines are awful and... Look... it doesn't matter anymore. He was desperate for proof. He had been following her around town for a while, and I just didn't know. I realize that's stalking, but that should show you that *he's* the problem, not me. She called me... told me she saw his car behind her. She was *scared*, okay? Not the "I'm gonna be caught" scared, but the "I'm going to die" scared. I had to stop him from making a mistake he would regret. I knew where she was going. Our dealer was always, *always* on Pine when we met him. I left home, I got in my car, and I floored it. I kept her on the phone. I tried to keep her calm. She told me she lost him. She told me that she had turned without signaling, and she lost him. I knew we couldn't head straight back to her house or my place, but she was scared. I had to do something. I did the wrong thing, though. I thought it would help. A familiar face, a place she'd seen a few times, decent lighting? I told her to meet me at the gas station near where our dealer was. I was going to be there soon. I could make it. I could meet her there. I stopped in the park across the street, where you found my car. I got out and walked just that little bit farther to get to her. I should have just driven to the gas station. If I just did that, I might not be sitting here. I thought I was being smart. I'd been so careful up until then. But it just takes one goddamn mistake to ruin it all. I thought I'd built a fortress with my lies. I'd just built a house of cards. She'd seen someone with the same red jacket I wear, and she went up and hugged him from behind. That poor bastard. I was across the street when Jeremy pulled into the gas station. I swear I don't know what he said. I don't know what they were screaming at each other. I tried to listen, I really did. They just weren't loud enough. She looked horrified when she saw that the guy she had hugged wasn't me, and she started crying when Jeremy started walking toward her. Look, I've been in fights. I know what it looks like when someone is walking toward someone with intent to hit them. I couldn't let him hit her. He might have been angry, but he would have felt awful afterward. I tried to run across the street. I tried to make it, okay? I tried to do the right thing! But when I got close enough to see... I couldn't move my legs anymore. Jeremy's skin was *melting*, dripping from his body like *jelly*. His arms stretched too far. His face sagged down his body. His bones bent through his skin and *bent* like they had no structure. His eyes... I don't want to remember his eyes. His clothing slipped through his body as he turned into a brackish black. The sound that came from his throat was an unnatural, shrieking, gurgling noise. He grew larger. I... I know I had to convince myself that his bones still existed... but I couldn't see any of them. His body bent and twisted until that *thing* looked like something from a nightmare. I couldn't feel anything. My body wouldn't move. I tried to move. I tried to scream. I tried to run. I couldn't do it. I couldn't get out of there. I could only watch while his gelatinous form enveloped that poor man. I hope I forget the sound of his screams as his body dissolved. I will *never* forget the sound of that sick, muffled *pop.* Katy screamed. It was the last noise I'd ever hear her make. That thing that used to be Jeremy moved toward her. It forced what I think used to be his arm into her mouth and nose. His whole translucent form flowed down her throat. Do you know what it looks like when someone's stomach, chest, throat, and head expand like they're elastic? Have you ever seen a person *burst* like a balloon? I see it every time I close my eyes. His body compressed. His color returned to normal. He dressed himself and just walked back toward his car. He stopped when he saw me and just... *smiled*. I'm still trying to convince myself that the thing sticking out of his face wasn't Katy's jawbone. I don't think I moved until your officers arrived. Look... I get it. I saw what happened in the hospital after Progenitor's meltdown. I know what you assholes are trying to cover up. All that freaky shit that you tried to pretend didn't happen? I saw *all* of it. I saw the wings. I saw that... that *thing* in that writhing mass of "flesh". I saw that woman that lit her room on fire when she screamed. I know that Jeremy had to be one of those *things*. He's still out there. I don't know where he is. I can't help you with that. Please, though... you have to believe me. I'm on your side. I want those things exterminated. I didn't kill Katy or that guy. How would it be possible for me to do that in broad daylight? The gas station has to have CCTV. There has to be a recording of what happened. You can prove that I'm innocent! Look, I haven't told anyone, if that's what you're worried about. Put me in a polygraph, I'll prove I'm not lying about that. That's how you know I'm on your side in this. The world isn't ready for the shit that happened in that hospital. I know it started with Progenitor... that's the only thing that makes sense. That's where all of this unexplained shit started. I'm getting off-track, I know, but I just need you to know that I trust you to do the right thing. I've never heard of a police force having a "Special Operations Unit". Your uniforms don't look very official, especially not with the Progenitor logo, but I guess it would make sense for them to sponsor your efforts to clean up their mess. I would like to see a badge at some point, though. Other people have to be seeing all the weird shit that's been going on, right? I can't be the only one. I won't tell anyone. Just take me where you've taken everyone else that's come forward. It's just a matter of time before that thing that used to be Jeremy learns that I was the one sleeping with his wife. That *thing* is going to be coming for me. You have an obligation to protect me. It's your job! What have you done for the others who have come forward? It's been three weeks since your building exploded on that crowd of people. There *have* to be others. The idiot you left in here with me is checking his watch for the umpteenth time. He's working on loading his gun. I hope you have weapons that will actually work on a giant gelatinous monster. I wonder where you'll take me to be safe. What place is safe for me? I thought I saw other people telling you people about this stuff in rooms off the hallway.