Rachel looked at herself in the mirror. Why the hell was she so nervous? It was only coffee. But after so long. He’d contacted her on Facebook out of the blue. ‘Hey. Remember me? Fancy meeting up? Coffee? Talk through old times?’ Of course she remembered him. They’d been an item back in the day. He was young and good looking, she was young, drawn to those blue eyes, that ready smile. Yes, and she supposed she’d been attractive back then. Then she’d gone to college, uni, and well, he hadn’t. Gone into business with his dad, a builder, so no further education needed. They’d drifted apart, gone their separate ways. It happens. She looked at her reflection. The bags under the eyes, the lines round her mouth that turned it down, the chins, how many were there these days? She lifted her chin, pulled down the flesh on her neck, smiled. At least her teeth are still quite good, though the effort of smiling put more creases round her eyes, her mouth. Ah well. She looked at her hair. It had always been on the wild side, but now looking at it, she wondered if she should lay off the blond highlights, get a good cut. Too late now for retouching the roots. Then there was the body. She’d been a skinny thing when he’d known her; now she looked at her body with fresh eyes. She stood up straight, pulled her shoulders back. Her breasts were still good, bigger than they had been when they’d first known each other, but now in her mid-forties, gravity was starting to get the upper hand. And as for the jelly belly. Need to put on a looser top, she thought, something that hides those folds of flesh that never fully went away after the birth of Jess and Maddie. Need to get fit, said another voice, the one that thought every spare moment should be put to good use. But work, single motherhood and apathy had always got in the way. And now? Yes, she still had work, but first Jess and now Maddy had gone to university, leaving evenings and weekends free to do what she wanted, at least during term time. Get on top of the housework, she’d told herself. But that had been a failure. She’d always been okay at cooking, always managed to keep on top of laundry, but cleaning was for some reason beyond her capabilities. She marvelled at those women that seemed to have loads of time yet kept an immaculate house. Besides, she’d couldn’t bring herself to disturb the girls rooms, and when she’d tackled the bathroom, she’d found a nest of spiders and realised that no matter how many she caught, there’d still be more. Even now the strongest four had taken up their positions in the corners of the bathroom, the lesser spiders finding what territories they could. She sighed. Don’t worry about the spiders - you’re not inviting him back here. She looked at herself with a different, looser top on. Was she too casual in this? Don’t be stupid, it’s just a coffee with an old friend. It’s not a date. You’ll meet, chat, go your separate ways. Then why did she feel so nervous? She wished she’d not created that damned Facebook account now, but her daughters had insisted on it. “You can see what we’re up to mum,” they’d said. So she’d let her daughters create an account, let them upload a photo, an old photo, and let them put her down as status: Divorced. And now Julian had found her and wanted to meet up. She’d looked at his profile. Status: Widowed. Children two, boy and girl. Works as a builder. If nothing else, she told herself, you could talk to him about coming round here to redo the kitchen. Not that she’d got the money for that, but it would be a talking point, getting advice on how to do it on the cheap. She examined his picture. It was of him with his two children, both younger than her daughters. It looked like the girl - what was her name? - had taken a selfie of the three of them together. Julian was laughing as was the girl. The boy, who was the image of the man in his youth as she remembered him, looked pained and unwilling, as only pubescent boys can. She looked closer at the man. The smile was there in the mouth, in the eyes, but his hair was thinning, he needed a shave. He had not aged well. We’ve got something in common then, she thought. She wondered at the irony that sometimes, those that began adult life as handsome, rakish, went downhill, while those that were considered ordinary or boring sometimes matured into something more pleasing. Watchit kiddo, she said to the boy in the picture. That’s what you’ll look like someday. Maybe he knew. Maybe that’s why he was scowling. She wondered again at why he might want to meet up. Her job in IT meant that she was reasonably well paid, could look forward to a half decent pension at some point in the dim and distant future. But still there was always too much month left at the end of the money. There was still the mortgage to pay, and the rest, to say nothing of the cost of putting her girls through uni. Tom, her ex, had always paid maintenance for the girls, but there was still never enough. Are you after my money, she thought. Are you thinking because I’m a homeowner, got a job in IT, lonely, that I’m an easy touch? After all, he was a manual labourer, self-employed. Which means he didn’t have things like a guaranteed pension. And surely with that sort of work there was only so long that you could keep doing it. Wasn’t there? So then what do you do? Look for a lonely woman you can tap for a few quid? She didn’t like that thought, made her feel ill. She looked at herself in the mirror again. Her clothes at any rate didn’t sing out money. The exact opposite, they were shabby with only a small amount of chic. It had been so long since she’d bought new clothes, been out on a date. Don’t be silly, it’s not a date. It’s just coffee. You don’t have to commit to anything more. And forget about mentioning the state of the kitchen. At least for now. They’d arranged to meet in a garden centre. It meant she could get there early, wander round the plants, hide behind a display of herbaceous perennials to give him the once over. That had been the plan at any rate, but roadworks delayed her, leaving her just enough time to park at the far end of the busy car park. She was walking towards the garden centre when... “Get stuck in the roadworks?” He was there. No backing out now. She looked him up and down. He’d had a shave - thankfully - and a buzz-cut had improved the hair line. He was dressed in jeans and a checked short-sleeved shirt. “Err, yes.” Why the hell was she feeling so nervous? “Me too.” And she noticed that he wasn’t looking directly at her. Was he nervous too? They stood there for a moment or two, having run out of things to say. “So, coffee?” He took the lead and led the way to the café. She walked beside him, a step behind. There was no closeness, no brushing up against one another as if they were friends, would-be lovers. Well, this is going well, she thought, but at least with a coffee they could sit and sip if they couldn’t think of anything to say. What do you say to a man who you knew everything about at age 16, but know nothing about now? He took charge at the café, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He insisted they had cake, no he shouldn’t really either, but why not? Once in a while? It’ll give us something else to do when we can’t think of anything to say, she thought, eat cake. She watched him as he ordered, paid. He’d been skinny when she’d known him before. Now he’d filled out. But not too much, she noticed. No beer gut at least. His short-sleeved shirt showed the ends of tattoos, and his arms looked strong, used as they were to labour, his hands calloused from his work. She quietly breathed him in as she stood behind him in the queue. He smelled nice. He’d always smelled nice, she remembered. They sat, they sipped. It was still awkward, until she took a bite of the éclair, ending up with cream on her nose. He laughed, the ice was broken, and it was suddenly easy to talk. They talked about the old days, went through the routine of ‘do you remember’, talking about the friends they’d liked, the teachers they’d hated. He asked about her divorce, a mutual separation eight years ago, she asked about his wife, cancer, five years ago. He asked about her work, and she asked about his. He was his own boss, he said, a small building company, five men relying on him for work. Turns out he’d had more education than she’d given him credit for with all the regulations he had to follow. He liked being his own boss, wouldn’t have it any other way. She said she wouldn’t either. Preferred the security of the 9-5, an annual wage, a secure pension. He smiled. He’d be okay. He was buying up properties, doing them up, renting them out. He’d currently got six properties, intended to add more until he retired. Then he’d live on the rent. So, not after your money then, she thought. Only a coffee after all. No hidden agenda. Suddenly he looked awkward again. “Look, I’ve got a confession. I didn’t contact you. I’d seen your profile and Kelly had seen me looking. She sent the message from my phone while I was out of the room.” “So you didn’t want to be here today?” “No, I did. It’s just that I wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask you myself. She knew you’d been my girlfriend at school, thought it was about time I was out there again.” “She sounds like my daughters. That’s what they keep telling me. What business is it of theirs anyway?” They both laughed, suddenly easy in each other’s company once more. The coffee, the cake, was finished. “Do you fancy looking round the plant section? I’ve got to get something for mum.” It seemed he wanted to extend the date. “Okay. I need a couple of perennials to fill a gap.” They moved easily into the plant section, wandering around all parts, discussing what they liked and disliked in an unhurried fashion and as they browsed, they moved closer. It was the end of the season and perennials were three for two, so she chose three, gave him one for his mother. She’d always liked his mum. Plants paid for - she refused to take any money from him, she was giving him the free plant after all - they moved to the car park. She put her plants into the boot and turned to say goodbye. “Look, Rachel,” he said nervously, “I’ve enjoyed today. I wonder if you’d like to meet up next weekend? Just for coffee and a chat.” She smiled. Yes, she would. He wasn’t the handsome youth she remembered, but hey, time had caught up with both of them, and at her age she didn’t think she should be too picky. Besides, they were only two old friends meeting for a coffee. He leaned in, held each of her arms and kissed her gently on her cheek. She was surprised at the electricity, the sudden attraction she felt for him and judging from the confusion on his face as he pulled back, she wondered if he’d felt the same. “Till next week then.” And as he walked away, she put her hand to her cheek as if the feel of his lips was too precious to let go.


My name is Ella. Growing up, I was told to do my best and conquer the world. My duty was to study, focus on important stuff, and not get distracted. No movies, books, friends, or boys were supposed to derail my mother's goal: I would have what she didn't, and I would share the success with her: my sponsor, my promotor, my everything... at least for a while. School was always tough for me, not because I found it challenging to deal with it, but because I was never as good as others thought I could be. The pressure at school was much better manageable than the one at home, even when I realized my mother was strict but would never kill me if I failed math. I was never a sports girl or a genius in science, and even if I loved literature and reading, learning grammar was boring and consuming. Despite the struggle, my grades were good enough to pass year by year, and they improved during my high school years, allowing me to attend university: I was on the right path to becoming "something." In those semi-adult years, I chose a career that should give me a bright future, and it did... until the lights went out, and I decided to change my life before it decided to run away from my body. But I am getting ahead of my story. I believe I did burn out for the first time during my university years, even though no one took me to a doctor's office to diagnose such a condition. Looking back, I remember my engineering course as a continuous nightmare, one of those where someone chases you, and you keep running...forever. I did not like what I was doing, and I did not want to change either, which seems stupid, but it's the truth. I did not want to change or stop because I felt I couldn't. How could I? That would mean failing my mother's expectations and, even worse, contradicting the firm belief that had been given since I was an infant: never stop, never quit, always show you can do whatever is necessary. What was I supposed to do? Look for happiness by doing something energizing? To feel good? No. I considered it but did not dare to do it, so I continued and finished my studies. That was supposed to take the weight from my chest... and it did until the next thing came across. Because there are always things thrown at us and others... well, we choose them even if we have no idea what we are doing. After years spent with my nose buried in books, the next logical step was to look for a job. In a rebellious attempt to take ownership of my life, I moved abroad and got my first job, where I learned a ton, mostly about people. Sometimes, I even learned things about myself, which might sound ridiculous since that's who I had always lived with... but in fact, I hadn't, not like that. I had ups and downs, and a few years later, my mother politely asked whether my universe domination headquarters could move to her living room. Unfortunately for my mother, I had listened for years- too well- to all the stories she told me about the mysteries of this planet and its people, so I decided to move around to see it all with my own eyes. If I had been a bit more adventurous instead of settling in apartments, I could have made a YouTube channel to speak about my van life. If I had not decided to work stupid hours in a corporate job, I could have taken surf lessons, partied for days straight, and taken over fabulous businesses. But not. I met someone. I fell in love. I had children. I kept working, studying, and having wonderful goals for a wonderful future. And then, again, a dark cloud. One day, on our way home from work, I asked to go to the hospital instead. That was the first time I thought I was dying... but I was not. I was "just" having a panic attack. And a few weeks later, I had the second. At that time, I had a tough job and two children who were not in the business of making life easier. Some of my colleagues did yoga and meditated; others popped pills like candy to overcome that thing called stress. I was terrified of pills and what they do to people, what they turn them into, so I decided to speak and hate a stranger instead. Oh, my, how I hated that woman, for months, sitting in that red chair, speaking... I talked and talked, and the seasons changed. I moved away from that red chair, together with my family, into a more Nordic style, with lower temperatures and greyer skies. I had always thought sunlight was overrated. Now, I think that's what you feel when you have it every day. I got a new job and then another. I met more people, got more responsibility, grew older, and lost patience for silly things. And politics. And things and people that are supposed to be like all the others... Maybe Taylor Swift is correct, and if I were a man, I would be the man, but at this point in my story, I don't know if I even would want it. I don't know if I want to conquer the universe anymore. I feel more inclined to write about it and attack the cookie drawer instead... or travel worldwide and enjoy a good coffee and sweets. Last year, I burned again. While having a panic attack on the elevator and struggling to breathe on my way to the seventh floor of my office building, I tried to think what that meant for my future. None of the thoughts were good or politically correct. I wished the world would burn instead of me, but I am a reasonable person -most of the time- and what I decided was much easier for everyone around me. After all, the problem was me, not them. I left. I cut ties. I disappeared from their lives to take over mine. One year later, I write from my living room, read in my bed and garden, pick my younger kid up from school, play with him and his siblings, and share my life with my partner. I do all those things, but I feel nothing. I am productive. I have a goal and a continuous challenge. I've chosen my path, the one that was supposed to make me happy... Someone told me once that it was a perfect job for a tormented soul. Based on that, I should be the most successful person in my area, but not yet. Right now, I'm just perfect on paper: tortured and conflicted. One more decision. There is a little bottle in front of me. One pill a day keeps me sane and stable. I look at it and think about sanity and stability, what it means, and what doesn't. This is not it. I don't think so. I take the little container. I open it. I pour the pills on the counter. So many things I've decided in my life. So much struggle... and then, now, not anymore.


>The Tumblr text post bot AutoNB posted , and I got a little bit inspired. I look down at my watch. I’m not sure why, I always have an hour. I’ve had an hour until work for quite a while now. I walk outside, and watched the bird. The same bird, floating in the same spot, unmoving. I study its plumage, noting the interesting way the feathers folded in as it brought them in close to its body, forever caught halfway into freefall. I look at the woman in the window who’s been taking off her shirt for who knows how long. I found it erotic once, but time has a way of drawing that away from you. I scoff at myself. Time. That concept no longer applies to me. One day, at roughly 7:43 AM, it stopped. I seem to be the only one unaffected by its stubbornness to continue. I thought about that for a moment; perhaps it was the other way around, I was the only one uncaring to the progression of time. The effects were interesting. I can still interact with the world, but the moment I release something from my grasp it loses all the inertia I should’ve passed to it. At the very least it allows me to eat. Same applies to living things as well. The newspaper boy used to be sitting on his bike. I’ve arranged him to be standing horizontally on the side of a tree, flipping the bird to the ground in defiance of gravity. I still get a chuckle from it every time I see him. I sigh. At first, this was confusing. Then, exciting. I could do whatever I chose with no consequence. I took more advantage of this than I should have, I’m ashamed to admit. After what I assume was a week, it became lonely. I had nobody to speak to, no-one to voice my ideas with. I began to keep a journal of what I’d done and what I could do, in hopes that when-- no, if-- time decided it wished to quit stalling at some point, I’d at least have records. I make an entry before I sleep every day. I flip back through it; according to the system I’d made for my own records keeping, it had been 477 days since time had halted. Over a year without contact from anyone except the frozen mannequins masquerading as living men. It’s an interesting nightmare. I wonder if I’ll wake up.


\[SF\] Tall ceilings, vast corridors, and rooms that seemed endless. Off-white, cream colored rooms, marble floors, and every entryway was topped with an arch. The ceilings were much too tall and served no purpose but to echo the silence that was within. There were people, but they did not speak, hardly moved, showed no emotion, and did not cast a shadow. They could all stand on each other's shoulders and they would not reach the ceiling, although there were hundreds if not thousands of them. The people seemed lifeless. But, to this day I knew they served a point. What point they served I could not tell you. I arrived into this place well after everyone else, and I seemed like a peaceful intruder. I am not sure what caused me to think this, but immediately I knew this was a library and a place of scholars, but no books were to be seen. No shelves, no books on the wall, no bookcases. The place still seemed like a library to me. It resonated as a place of thoughts and ideas, searching and learning, understanding the misunderstood, and questioning questions that had yet to be thought. The only sound I heard at this point was the echoes of my own footsteps walking down a spiral staircase. The path I followed was not the grand stairway, but the stairs my journey began upon without my asking. It was one of the many staircases that lined the perimeter of the beautiful place. I walked. I observed. Nothing really happened. Peace, at its finest. As I stepped through the archway at the bottom of the stairs, I was met by someone, someone who moved but did not talk. She handed me a book. This book was like no other book I’ve ever held, it simply wanted to go up. The best way i can describe this is the book was like an air bubble in the water, its desire was simply to travel up. I struggled to hold onto it and had to fight the book’s intentions to ascend, but I was able to do so. Almost like hitting play on a paused movie, everyone, who priorly was statuesque began to bustle around moving frantically. No matter which direction they moved, somehow they all convened on me. Each one faceless, but somehow individually unique in nature, all handed me book after book after book, each book like a balloon that just wanted to rise. Every single book I was given seemed determined to defy gravity and dreamed of meeting the ceiling of that lovely, but odd, place. I held them all, but they began to be too much. Or were they? Half of me wanted to hold them down because books don’t belong in the air. But, half of me wanted to let them ascend and take me with them. In the middle of this internal struggle between being grounded in the world I sort or knew, or, ascending with the books into the unknown... I woke up. It was all a dream.


The wall clock isn’t hanging on the wall. The wall clock rests on top of the audio speaker placed stage-right adjacent to the television. A series of negative taunts becomes my reality. I breathe and don’t expect anything. The tick and tock of the clock beats with an entrancing pulse. Rhythm adjusts the vibrations. The room itself hums in silent congruent resonance. The reverb of my breath shakes away a certain feeling and allows proper tuning. What was it that was getting at me? A sound! I turn around and see nothing but my own laughter. How easily startled! So becoming of faith and foolishness! The wall clock stares at the ceiling. Oh, yes. The rhythm hasn’t stopped. The AA battery will only last so long, but alas, what worry have I tonight? Verily, a man who checks his wristwatch with impulsive rapidity would do well to avoid positions of high authority, lest he enter la vie un Sheol in a paranoid, self-induced slavery. Truly I tell you, the man who measures his days is wise, but obsession with temporal materializations is the methodology of fools. The clock cannot be seen but still ticks in perfect time. Sure, you have to reach around the back and set the time manually. And what good is it to set the time manually if the battery is depleted? Will you set the time? Will you keep checking the time? Hark, the clock may run slow or fast! Do you consider this problematic? A lad late to the date makes a mate quite mad. Will you be tolerated? Can you even tolerate yourself? Are you able to tolerate the tick? Do you have the ability to handle the tock? There is a piece of melted dark chocolate sitting right on the clock face. The chocolate is still edible, but the devil himself cowers at the increased difficulty of removing melted chocolate from its foil wrapper. Oh, yes. The rhythm continues. Such sensation! A sinless sensation! What could compare? Distraction here, and distraction there, there’s distractions everywhere! A chirp! A knock! A candle that burned yesterday! A fresh candle seen earlier today at the market! The inexpensive vegetables! Father time, my grandfather clock, a tick from heaven, from earth a tock. The soft mellow strum of an A-432 classical guitar. And has it really been so long since we loved? Since our embrace? Has it really been any time at all? Silent in the moment I sit, dipped in honey, patiently and earnestly waiting for your touch.


Big Band music blared from the garage, as Seravina entered from the kitchen. The large circular clock on the far wall read 2:12 am. The usually organized mechanic’s paradise had car parts, wrenches, grease, oil, nuts, bolts, and an assortment of bizarre gadgets jumbled on the floor, the shelves, and the ceiling. She stepped carefully around the obstacles and spills and moved over to the mechanical beast, Tood referred to as ‘the Chevy’ or ‘Dragon’. The music changed to an upbeat jazz song with a female singer. The princess listened to a few bars before recognizing Completely , a new song, which Tood played for her two days ago. She knew he was in here, she could hear a tool whirring underneath the car. The Chevy was covered in a green tarp, except for the hood. Floodlights illuminated the engine and beneath the disassembled vehicle. The music stopped suddenly. “Who’s there?” Tood called from underneath. “It’s me, Seravina. May we have a conversation?” “Sure. As long as you don’t mind talking, while I’m working here.” “I would prefer seeing you face to face, but I know how busy you have become.” He torqued a wrench. “I am sorry about that. I am not trying to avoid you. I couldn’t sleep last night. I was so fidgety, so I decided to rebuild the engine.” She leaned her back against the machine. “My slumber has also been disturbed with numerous nightmarish apparitions. I awoke and made some herbal tea, but that only heightened my anxiety and I could not return to bed.” “I could use some help. There are some mechanic coveralls on the counter. Slip one on and ‘Seravina, Come on Down’!” “Just a moment.” She smiled at the comment. She had watched a game show on the telepicture device called ‘The Price is Right’, which Mrs. Hemingway and Tood loved. She had enjoyed the frantic run of the peasants to the front of the stage in order to win trivial items in degrading carnival games. She found the bibs, chose one, and quickly undressed. She removed her shirt and jeans along with her shoes. She arranged her long hair into a ponytail braid as she stood in her underwear in the cold garage. Tood looked up and saw her beautiful physique. He quickly averted his eyes. “Princess. You did not have to remove any of your clothes. The suit would have covered you completely.” “Thank you. I will remember it for next time. “ She placed the blue bibs on and zipped it up. “I know nothing of these contraptions.” She walked over to his side and sat on the floor. “How do I look?” Tood cleared his throat to keep his jaw from dropping. “Great. Ready to work. Over there is a scooter. Lay on it and come next to me.” She found the mechanic’s scooter and lay on her stomach. She pushed herself toward the machinist. She glided across the garage. “This is quite enjoyable.” Tood looked up and grinned. “Cute. Lay on your back and slide next to me.” He tapped the floor. She laughed, “Oh. I see.” She got rearranged and moved next to him. “Hello.” “Hi.” He raised his hands over his head and pulled on a wrench, “So what’s on your mind?” “Tood, I would like to speak to you about what happened the other night.” “My lady, so much has happened. Please be specific.” Tood smirked and gave her side glance. Seravina did not notice the look. “Specifically, I am referring to the night we danced and kissed.” She looked at her hands. “Oh.” Tood over exaggerated. “I remember. Could you put your hand on mine. When I count to three, pull with me.” “Certainly.” “One, two, three.” They pulled together and the final bolt easily moved. Tood turned the bolt until it fell into his grease covered hands. A small square lead container dropped in his hands. “Thanks. I have been trying to get this all night.” He slid out from the car and she followed. “I do recall quite a strike in the face.” He sat up, stood up, and held out his hand. She accepted his hand and he lifted her up.“I do apologize for that outburst, but I was referring to the event prior and...” He drew her close. “I remember every fantastic moment. Vina, I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.” “Truly you do? I love you as well.” They embraced and kissed passionately. “Are we betrothed?” She began to cry. “Yes, my love. I won your hand and your heart. Why are you crying?” “I have remembered...remembered what I did and who I hurt.” “That’s wonderful, my peach.” “I am not your peach and it is not wonderful. It is horrendous!” “Before you confess, let me guess what you did lovey-dovey, please?” “Lovey-dovey, what?” Tood cleared his throat, “You came here to manipulate me into finding Divadus, so you could kill him. You were going to feign some injuries to win my sympathies. Which you probably did have, since you used the gold necklace and jewel. But instead of finding me, you met up with Captain Chico and most likely Popson and Chang. How am I doing so far?” “Unfortunately, 100 percent. How did you know?” “I put the pieces together. You described the events at Five Pennies in accurate detail. You recognized the fountain and Popson and Chang. You admitted to ruining a man’s life. Chico’s life is shattered.” “Thanks to me.” She sobbed. Yes. Thanks to you.” “What? You are glad he is in jail and awaiting trial?” “Yes. He is a low life scum and thug who deserves all the punishment. I believe in Divine retribution. His corruption and manipulation in Between could have gone on for years, if you had not exposed the real Chico to everyone. He is getting what he deserves. Your motives may not have been pure, but your actions have removed wickedness from our fair land. All’s well that ends well.” “But an innocent woman was murdered. I started the chain reaction which led to her demise!” “Innocent? She probably deserved it too. A casualty of war.” “Tood, we are not at war. This was a peaceful time.” “A casualty of peace then.” Tood continued, “Come to think of it, the City Council deserves to die because of their wicked lies and trespasses. Let’s go get them. We can be the hand of Good and cleanse the town of all unrighteousness.” He grabbed a sword from the corner of the garage and marched toward the exit. “No Tood! Stop!! They don’t deserve to die. I am the one who caused it all. The wounds, the party, the destruction, the mob, and...” “The murder!” Tood stopped and turned toward her. “You’re right. You do deserve to die. Here you go.” Tood thrust the sword into her midsection and twisted. “Die evil doer!” Seravina released an ear-splitting scream of terror. She sprung upright in her bed with sweat pouring from her body. She checked her stomach and wiped the perspiration from her forehead . She crashed her head back on her pillow in frustration and anxiety. The third night in a row with the same haunting images. She knew she would not be able to return to slumber. She stared blankly at the ceiling. In frustration, she kicked the covers off, stomped out of bed. The small electric clock on the table read: 2:12 am. The princess removed her nightgown, put on pants of sweat and an elastic shirt, Emmy had called spandex. She grabbed a pair of blue socks and silently exited her room and down the spiral staircase. Tood had shown her the torture room and how to operate some of the devices including the treadmill. “Treadmill, odd name.” She had always enjoyed running, but not in the same place and not on a machine. She stopped outside the room and heard a whirring sound. Vina opened the door without a squeak. The princess witnessed Tood, with his ears covered and eyes shut, using the elliptical machine. The vigor and violence in which he beat the machine indicated to her, he also had a restless night. She slipped past him and started the treadmill on the walk setting. The machine groaned awake and yawned her feet to take one methodical step at a time. Seravina increased the speed to a vigorous walk as she stretched and strode her long legs. In a moment, she would start her run. Tood heard the treadmill start and watched Seravina begin her walk. He slowed his pace and removed the headphones. “Good morning.” “Good morning,” She replied, “I hope I have not interfered with your self-torture.” He grinned and slowed further, “I am almost done with this part. I am off to do some flailing next.” The princess looked at him in surprise and then laughed, “I almost thought it was not a jest.” She started to jog. “Did I wake you with my exercise?” He stepped off the machine and walked toward her. Sweat had soaked into all his clothes. He drank from a clear bottle. “Not at all. I woke up and could not return to sleep. So I decided to torture my body instead, as you suggested. How long have you been here?” “About an hour. I also couldn’t return to sleep. Tons on my mind.” “Thousands of pounds is too much even for you, my lord. Please share your load.” She smiled at him. “It may help.” He shifted his weight from left to right. “Ok. Well, first, the junkers have been reporting strange things happening in the Swamp and River Drayne.” “What kind of things?” Seravina asked. “They say it has been too quiet near the Swamp. They fear something is watching them. Some have claimed seeing purple giants in the marshlands and junks. The Swamp Monster has not been seen in weeks. She has kept life in balance there for decades.” “You told me the Swamp Queen is sentient and made an alliance with your people.” “Exactly. I pay homage to her each month. If she is no longer there, then...” “What could be strong enough to displace her and take control of her kingdom?” “Bingo. Whatever it is, it is immensely strong. I need to investigate it with Woof. The other problem is more confusing.” “What’s the new dilemma? “Some of the water from the River Drayne has been purposely diverted into the Wamp.” “For what purpose? Irrigation? Industry? Filtration?” “Your guess is as good as mine.” “Anything else on your industrious mind?” “I have deciphered most of Emmy’s message.” “Excellent. Do you know where she is?” “Near New York City, a large metropolis with millions of people. But she also gave clues about a beach location.” “Perhaps it is a false location to throw off her captor. Or the coordinates of something valuable.” He sipped the water. “Maybe.” “Anything else?” He chuckled, “Bad dreams. Actually, the same one three nights in a row” He rubbed his neck. Seravina stopped running and nearly fell off the tread. She stumbled and scrambled to match the tread and the console. She slammed the automatic stop button. “Hey, are you alright? You nearly crashed.” “I am fine. I also had a nightmare, which awakened me abruptly, for three days.” The Junkman drank some more, opened up a miniature frigger and handed a clear bottle to Seravina. “Tell me what happened in your dream.” “No. Let me hear your night images first.” He took another drink and sat down on the Bowflex. He blushed. “You and I were sitting on a bench near a garden. I was.. You were...We were... getting to know each other. Personally. Passionately. Intimately.” “Lord Dorf,” Seravina blushed, “Were we... procreating?” “No, no, no. We were kissing. Just kissing, I think.” The princess gave a sly grin, “Continue, please.” “So, it was a wonderful time until car headlights shined on us. It blinded us, but I could see the outline of the Chevy. The engine roared and sped toward us. We barely jumped out of the way. Then I was all alone, hiding behind the Big Tree. I watched as a couple got married, but then I saw the Chevy bearing down on them. I screamed to warn them, but it was too late. Dragon turned around and chased me down. I ran as fast as I could, but it drew closer and closer. It cornered me near the fountain in Tween. As I gazed into the driver’s side, you were behind the wheel. You maniacally laughed and then drove the vehicle into me. I woke up.” He sipped his water. “Fascinating. Dreams are bizarre. I understand now why you have been avoiding me.” “I am sorry for avoiding you. It was silly, really, over a dream.” “I do not know how to ‘drive’ this burdensome beast.” Tood rubbed his wavy hair. “I know. Please tell me your dream.” “I would like to hear more of our intimate time together.” She smirked. “Vina, your dream.” “As you wish. Maybe another time.” She flirted. “Well, you and I were in the garage together, but I had never been in there. You were working on the mechanical creature. The garage was littered with all sorts of spills, tools, and devices. You asked me to help you. I dressed in blue coveralls. I helped you remove a small contraption. You said you had been trying to remove it for three days. Then we hugged and kissed. You then accused all of Between of evil deeds. You were bent on their destruction. When I protested, you drove a sword into my torso.” “Princess, follow me, please.” Tood left the exercise room and went straight to the kitchen. Seravina briskly followed and sipped her water. “Where are we going?” He walked past the kitchen island and opened the door to the garage. The automatic lights illuminated the room. “Did the dream garage look like this?” The elf dropped the water bottle and it spilled across the cold tile. “Yes, exactly.” He held out his hand. She grabbed it and followed him to the far side of the Chevy. She noticed the blue bibs and then the scooter. He released her hand and went to the hood. He returned with a lead container with a greasy rag inside. “Is this what we removed together?” “It is. How can this be? It was only a dream.” “I think you have experienced a premonition. I have been secretly working on this since Emmy...left.” Tood explained. “I found this hidden. Bolted between the front axle and engine block, two nights ago. Until tonight, I couldn’t remove it.” “What is it?” Vina inquired. “Have a look.” Tood encouraged. She reached her hand toward the container then stopped. She pinched her right leg until she winced. “I am awake, I think. How to make sure?” Without warning, she slapped Tood across the face. She felt the sting in her hand against Tood’s hard jaw. “Oww! What was that for?” She shook her fingers, “I apologize, just making sure you are real and not an apparition.” “Man, you pack a wallop!” He rubbed his jaw. “Apologies, my Lord.” She removed the greasy rag and placed it on the ground. Her hands trembled as she unwrapped it. An ethereal crimson glow emerged from the floor and illuminated her face and hands. She gently placed her hands around the light. “Yes, your Majesty. It is your inheritance. It is your birthright. It is your kingdom.” The elf princess said in reverence, “The Bloodstone.” She held it aloft and then placed it over her heart. It glowed brighter and brighter, surrounding her in a warm white light. The stone vanished. Seravina’s skin glowed brilliant red and then returned to her normal tone. She stood with a majestic glow. Tood fell down on one knee and proclaimed, “It is the highest honor to be the first to speak with the new Empress of the Elven Kingdom.”


The mood was grim on the front lines. Arthur picked his way through the soldiers that sat about, watching the distant ships in orbit. They were only black specs for now, but they’d be here soon to rain hellfire from above. The quiet, forested valley lulled as if it could feel the coming terror. Every now and then someone would check their pulse rifle, aiming up at the clouds. Calibrated sights or not, he didn’t think they stood much of a chance. As he entered the heart of the camp, he saw the artillery being loaded. One of those cannons could take a chunk out of the moon. The whole valley was ringed with them, but it still wouldn’t be enough. The Invaders gunships had shields and missile defense systems that they couldn’t even comprehend. When Arthur reached the top of the hill, he found General James “Bullrush” Walton hitting a bag. Sweat dripped off him as he circled it, striking like a viper with his hands and elbows. He was old but strong, with thick arms and a wide back covered in scars. His ears were swollen and puffy from too many fights, and his nose was at a permanent slant. “We need to talk.” Bullrush ducked an imaginary punch and delivered an uppercut with a soft thud. “With all due respect, I think you’re making the wrong call here. It’s too dangerous to meet them in open combat. Fire on them from a distance, slow them down, and try to gain more information.” Bullrush paused and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Have you seen the footage from Mars?” His voice was deep and gravelly. “Yes. I’m sure everyone has by now.” In a few minutes of horrifying footage, the Martian outpost had been obliterated. The Invaders had arrived out of nowhere, and without any effort to communicate had destroyed everything. “Then you know what we have to do. Not one foot of Earth soil is going to be taken today.” “We’re going to end up just like the Martians. Please, I’m begging you. Save our strength for another day. These men and women are willing to die, but don’t make them die for nothing.” Finally Bullrush turned to face him. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as though he hadn’t slept. “Our orders are to stop the Invaders advance, and that is what we are doing to do. Have a goddamn spine. I don’t need my soldiers losing their nerve at the last minute.” He paced like a caged tiger. “I thought you had some honor, Arthur. They must not teach that anymore at the Academy.” Arthur clenched his fists. “It’s not about honor, it’s about what’s best for the people on Earth. If we die for nothing, who is going to protect them? We need to be smart!” Bullrush turned away and struck the bag again. “That will be all, soldier.” “Answer me!” Arthur yelled at his back. “Who is going to protect them?” He grabbed at Bullrush’s shoulder, and suddenly he was on his back in the dirt with blood in his mouth. Bullrush stood over him, panting. “You’re dismissed.” ~~~~~~~ Arthur was lying on the cot in his tent icing his jaw when the phone rang. “Hello?” “Hi, Dad.” Her voice shook a little, but he pretended not to notice. “Hey, Bug. How’s the vacation going?” “It’s ok. It took a long time to get out of the city, I was bored. But mom brought me a book to read.” “Oh, yeah? What’s it about?” She was so smart, way smarter than he’d been as a kid that age. She devoured books and loved to learn anything she could. “It has knights and dragons and an evil wizard. But the main character is a princess who had to keep who she was a secret so the evil wizard wouldn’t find her. It’s a little scary sometimes, everything that happens to her. But I know it’ll work out okay.” “Oh, yeah? How’s that?” “All the best stories have happy endings.” Arthur pushed the phone away as he let out a quiet sob. He felt the cool path of a tear down his cheek. “That’s right. They do.” He said, not trusting himself to say anything else. “Mom wants to talk to you. I love you, Dad.” He tried to memorize the sound of those words. “I love you too.” He said. There was some static on the line, and then Helen spoke. “Are you safe?” “For now. They’re coming, Helen. And I don’t think we’re going to be able to stop them.” “Come home to us. Please. For your daughter’s sake. I know we’ve had our issues, but you’re a good man, and a good parent.” The siren went off nearby, and Arthur leapt to his feet involuntarily. “I have to go. Stay safe, Helen. Once you’re at the cabin, stay there.” He hung up and rushed out of the tent. People were running everywhere, strapping on body armor and loading weapons. He saw a few still sitting, staring out at the horizon with blank eyes. Arthur shoved through the crowds and made his way to the hangar. Several of the squad already had their suits on. They were twenty feet tall, made of titanium, and outfitted with every weapon known to man. He nodded to them as they passed and stepped inside the dimly lit hangar. Several technicians had already set it up his suit, and the cockpit stood waiting. He climbed a set of stairs and lowered himself inside. The motion sensors wrapped around him, and for a moment everything was dark. His whole body was enveloped like a cocoon, and the head closed to cover him. Then the cameras clicked on, and the entire room blinked into view. He could see in front, but also smaller windows of the view behind and above. It was disorienting at first, but after as much training as he’d done it was second nature. “Gather around, everyone.” Bullrush called out through the speakers of their machines. While the other suits were a dull silver, his was crudely painted in the black head of a bull with flames pouring out of its nose and mouth. The squad fell quiet as they gathered around him. “In a few minutes, those Invaders gunships are going to arrive. They’re dangerous, we all know that. But so are we. They haven’t seen us in action yet, but when they do they are going to regret ever setting foot in this system.” He paused and looked at each one of them. “Remember your training. Remember what you’re fighting for. Humanity’s fate hangs in the balance. Now let’s show these alien scumbags what humans can do.” Overhead, the clouds parted. Three massive spaceships loomed over them, blocking out the entire sky. Arthur felt his blood run cold. It took all his willpower not to turn and run right then. But he knew if he did, he’d never forgive himself. Bullrush was wrong about this, but it was too late to change course. “Brace yourselves.” Bullrush said through the voice channel. “It’s about to get ugly.” All across the mountains, the artillery began to move. They swiveled to target the first ship, and then the peaceful valley exploded into chaos. Shells flew up at the fleet, but the shields stopped the explosions in midair. There was a lull for a moment as their artillery reloaded, and then the Invaders struck back. Concave structures that looked like satellite dishes were mounted on all three ships, and slowly they all rotated forward. “Take cover!” Someone yelled. Each dish fired an orange beam at the ground that punched into the earth, and for a moment nothing happened. Then Arthur felt the tremor under his feet. “Fly! Fly!” He yelled and engaged his thrusters. Where he’d been standing a moment before was torn to shreds, rocks and trees flying in every direction. As he climbed higher, he saw the impact ripple throughout the entire valley. The trenches the soldiers had been in just a moment ago were erased. It looked like an unruly child had kicked over an anthill. He could see people half buried, screaming for help. Some of the artillery was still standing, but most of it had been blasted apart. The bottom of the ships opened, and a massive metal spike dropped to the earth. A horde of purple skinned, six legged aliens poured out, skittering towards the devastated human lines. They were scaled, with massive fangs that hung out of their mouths in an overbite. Bullrush’s voice came in over the headset. “Everyone, to the ground now! Keep them off our people!” He twisted in midair and rocketed downwards, and Arthur followed. He flexed his wrist, and a minigun appeared out of his right hand. For his left, he chose a pulse hammer. It released a shockwave when it swung that would carve through their lines like butter. He accelerated towards the biggest crowd of creatures, and as the ground rushed up at him he swung the hammer. It detonated like a nuclear bomb, turning his enemies to ash as they flew backward. Instantly more took their place, rushing at him in a mindless wave. He leveled the minigun and swept it back and forth, fire shooting out of the barrels as bullets ripped through anything that came in front of him. Still, they kept coming. They seemed to have no regard for their own lives, pressing forward even as he mowed them down. He saw one leap at him in his backwards camera and turned too slowly. It opened its maw, and a cloud of acid flew out, taking out his vision. He turned the minigun and sprayed behind him, but several of them grabbed hold of it, melting it and ripping it from his arm. The swarmed up his arms and legs, trying to claw their way into the suit, and one of his knee joints gave out. He hit the ground and his pulse hammer slipped from his fingers. He screamed as the creatures crowded every camera, turning his vision to a blur of fangs, claws, and acid spit. Trying to fight his panic, he flipped his mic on. “Help! Someone, I’m getting overwhelmed!” Something scraped the suit just above his head, and he realized they were tunneling in. Arthur tried to put cover up with his arms, but the suit wouldn’t move. There was too much weighing him down. Something detonated outside, and suddenly his vision was clear. Arthur pulled himself up in time to see Bullrush finish off the last of the swarm with the pulse hammer. He offered him a hand. “On your feet.” Arthur stood shakily, his breath coming in quick gasps. “That was almost it.” “You’re still alive. Just try and keep it that way.” He grunted. “They just keep coming.” Overhead, the guns were recharging orange light glowed across the disks as they prepared to hit the ground with another seismic shock. “We need to take out those guns.” Bullrush said. “We won’t survive another shot from that.” “But how?” “Play it by ear.” He said. “We’re wearing billion-dollar super suits. It can’t be that hard.” That’s why they call you Bullrush, Arthur thought. Action first, always. They engaged thrusters and shot upward at a breakneck speed. Artillery shells went off around them as they passed through the shield, and then they were directly underneath the ships. Arthur was looking up at the guns when the presence entered his mind. An icy dagger of pain stabbed through the back of his skull, and he reeled back in the suit. Somehow, through the pain, he could feel the presence shifting through his mind. There was no doubt in his mind it was from the Invaders. How strange. The voice was so loud in his head could hardly think. It wasn’t any language he’d ever heard, but somehow Arthur understood it. Flesh creature inside a shell. It feels so frail on the inside. Soft and pliable. The pain increased, and Arthur screamed. Give in, flesh puppet. The pain was overwhelming. He could feel the presence trying to break its way into his consciousness and become one with it. Desperately, he tried to resist it. His memories streamed away, but he thought of Bug and clung to the thought. Everything else he could lose. Not that. He didn’t know how long it was, but eventually the presence receded. Arthur was still hovering in midair, and suddenly he could move again. His mind felt groggy and sore, but he was still alive. Bullrush turned to face him, and Arthur realized his eyes were a milky white. “Hey! Snap out of it!” His general lunged at him, swinging a fist in a hook. Arthur barely managed to veer backward to avoid it. “This isn’t you! Fight it!” He dodged backward again to avoid another punch, but this time it was a feint. Bullrush rocketed forward, closing the gap and slamming into Arthur. Together they tumbled through the air in free fall. Arthur fought to get away as they fell, but Bullrush had his arms locked around his chest. When they were almost at the ground, Bullrush twisted and accelerated Arthur straight down. Arthur boosted sideways, trying to get away, and they struck the ground in a skid. The impact flung them apart, and Arthur landed in a mangled pile. He tried to stand, but the suit didn’t move. He groaned and crawled out of the top. Flesh puppet finally left its shell. The voice was weaker down here, but it still made his hair stand on end. Arthur looked around and saw the top half of Bullrush’s suit impaled on a splintered tree like a kebab. The bottom half was nowhere to be seen. A group of the purple, six legged aliens skittered over the wreckage and fallen trees. Arthur drew his sidearm out of the ruined suit. He watched them come. Their milky white eyes fixed on him, and acid dripped from their slavering mouths. Arthur remembered what Bug had told him. “All the best stories have happy endings.” He said with a grim smile as the horde rushed towards him.


A whirling whisk of rotor blades stirs the puffy batter of string-shaped clouds, its lifting force, a dragging weight to the metal rotaries that flap a pair of windswept wings. The skies sense a certain groan, unmistakable, in the wavering flight of unsteady airfoils that seem mistakable for unsuspecting onlookers who shall be left unnamed. Directionless, the angles bend at the swipe of a sudden gale , its drafts thieving the helpless craft amid tussling, tossing drafts of flowing current, brash and shaken, rattled and brazen.  The lonely sea reaches out, demanding that we part with our 3,000 feet of altitude, but we weren't given much of a choice on whether the height we drifted in was ours to cede, for the ruling of the higher spheres have always claimed the reigns up here and while we sway and steer, despair knows, somehow, exactly where to find us. The hierarchy of control starts and ends at the hands of nature, whether we deem it true or not. There is no escape in the limits of mankind, but ─ we can damn sure try , at least... just not today. We are stranded, standing beside the haplessly heart-clenching mound of a flying vessel ─ though now, it should be renamed a dying vessel , because the enkindled crate of scrap, and flickering heap of shredded junk, still latching on to its final moments of solidity before its vital signs on the heart-beat monitor flat-line into a dredged-up bed of chips and flakes strewed and dispersed, sunk and submerged by the granular and gritty shore, the field of grain stained forevermore; but the funny thing is, before it was swallowed by flame, and before it had crumbled to ash, the useless carrier seemed almost a sermon before the burial site of the soon-to-be-dead party of victims to Mother Nature , soothing us into a state of acceptance for our entombment. My only hope is that future explorers stumble upon my gravestone and really read its carving: "If I am found intact, make it so I am no longer that, and let me dip and meld and ebb away into the rolling quilt of salty foam so that it may envelop me whole, like the under-watery inhabitants of sea: the quiet offscourings." It'll be quite the lengthy message, so I ponder starting it now, scrawling the writings into stone before I lose my life and no one thinks to save me an urn ... but desperate times call for desperate measures and so I'll have to settle for a jar. Farallon, a member of the luckless team, extended his hand and broke my train of thoughts. See ─ I signed up to an air touring agency to be taken on a scenic flight around the world, and now the pilot is somewhere swathed by swelling waves and spilt cascades. The service allowed for a maximum of five sightseers at a time, to not bombard the weight of the chopper, but suppose it falls anyway? What are we to do now? I haven't even learned the names of the crew of people I'm now stuck with on an island just off the coast of whoknowswhere. But I know who takes charge of the situation. The 'leader' of a pitiful pack, shall we say. Even from having just met the guy, it wasn't hard to tell Farallon always had something to say ~and at times like these, a little speech of encouragement really goes a long way~ in tricking the band of dopey twits into thinking we will actually find a means out of here without the slightest trace of normalcy or state of things not quite so kindly enough to win in our favour; smack-dab, the test of patience wears me out faster than the dread that sprouts its set of roots across the loam and soil and clay that hides the bones that don't decay, while the layered sediments that shelter limbs and flesh and meat all meshed into one, the soil, a hoarding miser, relishing its handy traps and gimmick ploys to put stuck souls like me to bed, to rest, to croak a rushed finale of meaningless words in an attempt at wishing away the world with a proper adieu despite the soundless sigh that will arise and fall back to the floor without another ear to catch its drip and trip and limp and dip into the dust where it belongs. Oh spare me the cruel net of catacombs clipped like a gentle, swaying pair of arms from Death herself, and so, bear me my load, I ask the crust of earth to brace itself a bassinet, in advance, for I must warn the heaviness of burdened minds, like that of mine, will otherwise surely capsize, thus I implore the sand and stones and dunes and bones to cushion up their cradle propped and build a bank that won't be flopped, a crib of slit that I can't topple over and dismantle, for who knows the damage I could cause? What more can the subsiding shore and tide take from the slumping weight of a sorry state and tempter of fate, and can it really last, provided, that the landmass left behind is blighted, for it isn't I that ends lopsided. Quivered breaths thrum out in prayers, in shaken soughs matched by the woeful, wafting wind, the mutterings of "hail mary's" unlike myself, the spells I cast existing by themselves; the sleepless night that drones us by has us getting ahead of ourselves. I used to scoff and scorn at hopeful speech givers like him ── but after facing what I had faced ──on the subsequent days of treachery and near-death experiences, the spear with which Farallon had used to strike the tirelessly thirsting tiger that fought its way through foliage and forestation to usurp its dominance in this meager isle, abandoned and stripped of delectable, writhing morsels such as I to take easy pickings off of and haul onto the rigidity dinner table of cobbled slabs on gravel mountains that protrude like pedestals, or totems, only beasts are fit to stand upon, for the ravening brutes of the brutal biomes, barbaric, bellicose, too busy brawling to buy into blessings of mercy or weak links to soft things that humans like too much: out here, the frail of hearts will blacken into steel-cold blood, without enough warmth ― the waning buds of fear, and doubt, and gloom, all close-knitted and matted and coiled, bodaciously, fittingly fueled and spoiled by the bleak feedings of an emptying mind, seemed... now ... things of the past. It was then, at the wisp's end of life, the threat of a flimsy thread coming apart in the silent snip of a split -scaring me stiff- in its fluttery flitter, almost slips from the sultry slick sweat of my soggy palms, the fluttering wire, not so thin anymore. A sense of powerlessness is plucked from out of my perpetual pit of pessimism. And I owe it all to Farallon. - - - - ~ poetic rendition ~ {specially composed format) - - A whirling whisk of rotor blades stirs the puffy batter of string-shaped clouds, its lifting force, a dragging weight to the metal rotaries that flap a pair of windswept wings. The skies sense a certain groan, unmistakable, in the wavering flight of unsteady airfoils that seem mistakable for unsuspecting onlookers who shall be left unnamed. Directionless, the angles bend at the swipe of a sudden gale , its drafts thieving the helpless craft amid tussling, tossing drafts of flowing current, brash and shaken, rattled and brazen. ~ ~ The lonely sea reaches out, demanding that we part with our 3,000 feet of altitude, but we weren't given much of a choice on whether the height we drifted in was ours to cede, for the ruling of the higher spheres have always claimed the reigns up here and while we sway and steer, despair knows, somehow, exactly where to find us. The hierarchy of control starts and ends at the hands of nature, whether we deem it true or not. There is no escaping the limits of mankind, but ─ we can damn sure try , at least. Just not today. ~ ~ We are stranded, standing beside the haplessly heart-clinching mound of a flying vessel─ though now, it should be renamed a dying vessel , because the enkindled crate of scrap, and flickering heap of shredded junk, still latching on to its final moments of solidity before its vital signs on the heart-beat monitor flat-line into a dredged-up bed of chips and flakes strewed and dispersed, sunk and submerged by the granular and gritty shore, the field of grain stained forevermore; but the funny thing is, before it was swallowed by flame, and before it had crumbled to ash, the useless carrier seemed almost a sermon before the burial site of the soon-to-be-dead party of victims to Mother Nature , soothing us into a state of acceptance for our entombment. ~ ~ My only hope is that future explorers stumble upon my gravestone and really read its carving: "If I am found intact, make it so I am no longer that, and let me dip and meld and ebb away into the rolling quilt of salty foam so that it may envelop me whole, like under- watery inhabitants of sea: the quiet offscourings." It'll be quite the lengthy message, so I ponder starting it now, scrawling the writings into stone before I lose my life and no one thinks to save me an urn. ...but desperate times call for desperate measures and so I'll have to settle for a jar. ~ ~ Farallon, a member of the luckless team, extended his hand and broke my train of thoughts. See ─ I signed up to an air touring agency to be taken on a scenic flight around the world, and now the pilot is somewhere swathed by swelling waves, and split cascades. The service allowed for a maximum of five sightseers at a time, to not bombard the weight of the chopper, but suppose it falls anyway? ~ ~ What are we to do now? I haven't even learned the names of the crew of people I'm now stuck with on an island just off the coast of ─ whoknowswhere ─ but I know who takes charge of the situation. The 'leader' of a pitiful pack, shall we say. ~ Even from having just met the guy, it wasn't hard to tell Farallon always had something to say ~and at times like these, a little speech of encouragement really goes a long way~ in tricking the band of dopey twits into thinking we will actually find a means out of here without the slightest trace of normalcy or state of things, not quite so kindly enough to be in our favour; smack-dab, the test of patience wears me out faster than the dread that sprouts its set of roots across the loam and soil and clay that hides the bones that don't decay, while the layered sediments sheltering limbs and flesh and meat all meshed into one, the soil, a hoarding miser, relishing its handy traps and gimmick ploys to put stuck souls like me to bed, to rest, to croak a rushed finale of meaningless words in an attempt at wishing away the world in a proper adieu despite the soundless sigh that will arise and fall back to the floor without another ear to catch its drip and trip and limp and dip into the dust where it belongs. ~ ~ Oh spare me the cruel net of catacombs clipped like a gentle, swaying pair of arms from Death herself, and so, bear me my load, I ask the crust of earth to brace itself a bassinet, in advance, for I must warn the heaviness of burdened minds, like that of mine, will otherwise surely capsize, thus I implore the sand and stones and dunes and bones to cushion up their cradle propped and build a bank that won't be flopped, a crib of slit that I can't top- -ple over and dismantle, for who knows the damage I could cause? What more can the subsiding shore and tide take from the slumping weight of a sorry state and tempter of fate, and can it really last, provided, that the landmass left is blighted and it isn't I that ends lopsided. ~ ~ Quivered breaths thrum out in prayers, in shaken soughs matched by the woeful, wafting wind, the mutterings of "hail mary's" unlike myself, the spells I cast existing by themselves; the sleepless night that drones us by has us getting ahead of ourselves. ~ I used to scoff and scorn at hopeful speech-givers like him, but after facing what I had faced, ── on the subsequent days of treachery and near-death experiences, the spear with which Farallon had used to strike the tirelessly thirsting tiger that fought its way through foliage and forestation to usurp its dominance in this meager isle, abandoned and stripped of delectable, writhing morsels such as I to take easy pickings off of and haul onto the rigidity dinner table of cobbled slabs on gravel mountains that protrude like pedestals, or totems, only beasts are fit to stand upon, for the ravening brutes of the brutal biomes, barbaric, bellicose, too busy brawling to buy into blessings of mercy or weak links to soft things that humans like too much: out here, the frail of hearts will blacken into steel-cold blood, without enough warmth ── the waning buds of fear, and doubt, and gloom, all close-knitted and matted and coiled, bodaciously, fittingly fueled and spoiled by the bleak feedings of an emptying mind, seemed, now, things of the past. ~ ~ It was then, at the wisp's end of life, the threat of a flimsy thread coming apart in the silent snip of a split, -scaring me stiff- in its fluttery flitter, almost slips from the sultry slick sweat of my soggy palms, the fluttering wire, not so thin anymore. A sense of powerlessness is plucked from out of my perpetual pit of pessimism. And I owe it all to Farallon. ─ ─ - ─ ── - ──


“Okay, alright, settle down everyone. Good afternoon students! Today’s lecture is on form versus content, which should come as no surprise if anyone referred to the timetables I sent out at the start of term. Some of you, the ones taking this seriously and hoping to turn their English Literature module into some sort of career, may even have worked their way through the additional reading list. Others may have spent three months in Bali hoping non-stop drugging and partying will transfer into ‘sociable’ and ‘thinks outside the box’ on their CVs. But like I was able to see through my husband, Professor John Edwards (whom some of you may know from the Radio and Television course this shell of an institution offers) claims that his late arrivals home were from losing himself to researching his novel was a blatant lie to cover up his ‘research’ into what lies between the legs of his favourite female students...well, intuitive employers will see through those masking of truths too. And so! We’re going to start with a poem. A poem by ‘Anonymous’, dated 1951, entitled ‘Birds That Lay Eggs in Another Bird’s Nest’. A rather clunky title, you may agree. Still, it’s a starting point. ‘Birds that lay eggs in another bird’s nest O, how I strive for such gumption! Selfish motherships made of beak and claw Caring not into what lives they tore Lives that will never get the chance to fully fledge Instead, laying dazed and broken in the belly of a hedge. Birds that lay eggs in another bird’s nest We all know them. We’ve all been there. The beady black eyes Trained on your swift demise Heeding not your angry words demanding an end To birds that lay eggs in another bird’s nest. They pillage and plunder Cast hopes and dreams asunder Because your home is their home (Not that it was ever yours to begin with) In doing so, not thinking it absurd How I yearn for such self-assuredness of mine And my progenies’ place in the world If you’d only thought to check with me first We could be sharing the warmth, the cradle, the nurse. Because sharing is caring. Stealing is daring. You were programmed to multiply But I see it as subtract.’ Well, what do we think? Comments? Yes, Joanne, share. Sharing is caring.” “I thought it was ugly, spiteful and...well, unimportant. The rhythm, the metre, it’s all over the place. It’s instantly forgettable. It evokes no emotion. The imagery - asides maybe from the belly of the hedge - could be much richer. It’s more a rant than a poem.” “It seems Joanne is not a fan. Now that Joanne has laid the corpse out on the table, perhaps someone else would like to dissect. Yes, Antoine, go.” “I liked it. It’s clearly coming from a place of passion. It’s definitely not about eggs. It’s rough, but then it sounds like the writer was going through a rough time too.” “Yes, Antoine. Exactly. The form may be shoddy but the content, when we dive beneath the surface layer, speaks of heartache. A sorrow for how a situation was handled. Regret about bonds that could have formed. Take, for instance, the many secret lives of Professor Edwards, or as I know him, ‘John’. Or as I now think of him, ‘cretin’. He could have explored his fetishes with his adventurous, caring, intelligent wife - AKA moi, yet he chose the form of an 18-year-old student slash bikini model. Take, for another instance, this lecture. Which will be the last I give here in Cornwall as I have my car loaded and ready to go as soon as I’ve delivered my parting gift to you all. A lesson to look below the surface. Don’t be distracted by shiny, overly made up yet fragile creations when you need to take a deep dive to benefit from the more nutritional value gained from extracting the core. No, I will not be taking questions, so you may as well lower your hand, Rachel. Enjoy the feeling of the blood returning to your fingers. I haven’t felt any sensation in weeks, it seems. Just numbness, occasionally pierced with needles of shock and shame. I don’t recommend it. I also can’t say I recommend trying to transfer those prickles to a voodoo doll. Yes, I keep an open mind and have open-minded friends but it doesn’t mean their ‘woo’ suggestions are going to work for me. So - and I know some of you pretending to be browsing your phones are recording this - Sally, if you’re watching, you can save your time stitching me any more dolls. Perhaps you should’ve made a life-size version for John to stick his dick into. Food for thought for next time, not that there’s going to be a next-” “Honey? Adam, dear? ADAM. Just take those headphones off a minute, wouldja?” “But Mum, this is amazing. So one of my lecturers quit today in the most insane way and I need to watch. Like, man, the one day I dodge a lecture and this shit goes down. Insane, I tell you.” “And I tell you: you gotta watch your language. You’re not with your friends now, Adam, you’re with your mother .” “Oh jeez, for fuc-” “ADAM” “ Okay , okay. What do you need me for anyway?” “A question I’ve been asking myself ever since you shot out of my womb...” “Thanks Mum, that’s real nice, I’ll send you my future therapy bill.” “I need you to run to the store and fetch me some eggs. We’re having omelettes tonight and your baby brother thought it would be fun to throw all the eggs out of the fridge and replace them with his stupid little Lego bits and bobs” “Well, eggs...Lego...they do sorta sound alike, I can see where he’s coming from.” “And I can see that English course of yours is really a great help.” “That’s such a coincidence, what with the clip I was just watching. It’s all about-” “I don’t care Adam, I just need some eggs!” “Hmm. Maybe it’s nothing to do with which bird it is at all, it’s all about the survival of the eggs.” “What are you mumbling about? I still don’t see any eggs here. Now go, go before your little brother starts eating his Lego. Go, before it gets dark.”


Memory is a fickle thing. It twists and turns and corrupts, changing others, ruining and breaking them. It can heal yet it can kill you, slowly and easily until you are nothing more than a husk of what you were. It can be your salvation, if you convince yourself it's real, or, ultimately, it can be your greatest nightmare. \- Some think there is a God; a ruler above, all-powerful and all-knowing and all-seeing - someone that will save them in times of need. A kind creature. A savior. No. That is all fake. I saw Him, once, back when I was eager and young and happy and free. I worshipped Him, not knowing what *He* truly was. I can't remember it now - He took my ability to remember from me, leaving me as a shell who can't even recall the voice or touch of his own mother. Now my dreams and waking moments are spent seeing Him. My memory is corrupted; mind changed and incinerated and burned with Him, only Him. He wished for me to be this way and now I am. \- I met Him in the forest. I can't remember where or when. I can't remember what the trees looked like or what I was wearing or how I even looked like. I only remember being in the woods, praying and singing songs prophesying His return. How foolish I was. I remember stopping my prayers suddenly, hearing noises in the greenwood; and like the curious lamb I was, I followed them, picking through the shrubbery and trees and stumbling upon a clearing. It was beautiful. I vaguely remember that. Full of flowers and grass and life and I, the inquisitive and wild creature that I once was, bravely walked through it. I stopped a couple of steps in, head cocked to the side as I noticed a large, hulking figure covered in an off-white sheet in the middle. The figure was swaying, left, right, left, right. I, not sensing or maybe not caring of the danger, walked towards it and ripped the sheet off. The figure seemed to fall and I sprang back on coltish limbs, transfixed and horrified and *curious.* It was humanoid, human-like but not - a strange mix of long limbs and even longer fingers and joints and *rot* to be human. It was spoilt, tainted and flyblown - sharp with protruding bones that strained across the decaying body. Its chest, skeletal and grey and unearthly, shook with every rattling breath and it twitched and convulsed and jerked and shuddered in every direction. I watched, spellbound and mesmerized as it breathed, unable to tear my gaze away from it. I called out to it, shouting and asking what it was - the greatest mistake of my now never-ending existence. I remember it slowly lifting up its head, skull ivory-yellow and eyes white and gleaming. I remember it focusing on me, distorted, split irises resting on my body as it moved its head to one side. I edged back, scared now but oh so curious, always so curious. A yellowed, blackened and gnarled hand spasmed, almost following after me; fingers shivering and bending and breaking and fracturing. The thing moved, standing up on impossibly long and gaunt limbs that nearly failed to support its weight and taking one trembling step towards me. It then opened its mouth, a long, jagged line - in place where lips and teeth and skin should be - and a black emptiness now remained. “*Come here, child*.” It rasped out, voice carrying across the now-silent, wind-blown clearing as it took another step, stronger and more sure of itself now. I didn't respond then. I couldn't. I was frozen and immobile and at its mercy. Another step and it was two feet away from me; back hunched and white eyes staring, staring, staring. It lifted its horrid hand again and rested it across my cheek - deathly cold and almost loving if not for the sharp nails that punctured my skin and tore into my face. It moved its head closer, now nose to nose and grinned, having more teeth than ever humanly possible that glistened white-yellow-black with its saliva. I trembled, both in fear and sick amazement as it stood above me, unable and unwilling to comprehend what was happening. I remember it grinning, wide and unchained, as its nails tore into my face. I remember the putrid mouth opening and revealing rows and rows and rows of teeth that seemed to stretch on for eternity, not seeming to have an end. “*I am God,”* it whispered to me and I believed it. I remember shutting my eyes and praying as its mouth opened even wider and it moved closer, I remember forcing my eyes closed as its teeth bit into my flesh, tearing the skin and muscle of my bones. It was torture. The worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I remember that. I woke up in the abyss. Dark and never-ending. I could not recall who or what I was, I could only remember *God* or whatever that gross imitation of *Him* was. An eternity has passed yet I still remember its eyes. They haunt me. They follow me. It still watches. He never left.


It was spring on the farm when all the craziness started. Rob just couldn't figure out how it was happening. He had installed CCTV, extra scarecrows, he and his dog had even stayed out on the porch all night listening out for any peculiar happenings. Yet the events still took place. He was loosing out on money fast, and his sanity. Every morning without fail, Rob would amble out to his yard, he would fed his chickens and pigs, turn hay out for the horses and let them out into the field for the day. He and his faithful dog, Pip would then make their way around the fences of the fields, checking for damages, or escapees. The new lambs would often tumble into little ditches or holes around the edge and get stuck. The first day it happened, Rob was rooted to the ground with shock. How could anyone do this? He had made his daily rounds with Pip, and just as he was finishing up, Pip had sensed something and ran off to explore. Rob heard her bark, and then whimpering. Thinking she had caught herself on some stray fence wire, Rob rushed over. There, lay on the grass, or should i say strewn about on the grass, was a pile of lambs. all dead. All with their inside trailing about around them. Their eyes were all removed and also in a pile next to them. The smell was horrendous, how could they smell so bad so quickly!? This was not done by an animal that was clear. This event kept happening, no matter how much Rob installed extra security measures, different animals repeated to turn up dead, their insides and eyes removed and piled up neatly next to them. He even went to the extreme of locking up all his animals in one barn, including the sheep! It was a squeeze but he needed to save them somehow, he had a farm to run and his animals kept being slaughtered. Even the attempt at locking them in the barn didn't work, Rob had fallen asleep on the porch whilst on guard, and woken up to his livestock wandering around his yard. Someone had let them out. They had smashed the lock on the barn and released them. The mortality rate rose. He found cows this time. Dragged around the back of the barn, each limb had been dismembered and a cross had been painted on their carcus. That night he had reached his peak of patience, he was scared of who was doing this, clearly they were not in the right mind. He reached out to a couple of his neighbours, who also had farms nearby. They had not been affected like this. They all agreed to come and guard Robs farm that night, to take it in turns. That way they could catch this horrific troublemaker and hand him over to the police. That evening, all on the porch with their dogs and guns, they waited. They watched the CCTV off a laptop they had brought with them. They also took shifts doing a perimeter check. Checking the locks on all the animals, checking the fences ect. It was 2.15am when it happened. There was a almighty bang. Waking the farmers and their dogs, they shot bolt upright listening out for anything else. They were scared. Out in the middle of nowhere with a crazy person wanting to kill their animals, obviously armed ready to dismember more livestock. Rob and his friends, loaded their guns and spread out around the farm searching and checking. Michael saw IT first. He had headed over to the chicken coops to check on them as they were making an almighty din. The lock was broken off. the door had been torn off its hinges. He shone his torch around inside. Feathers everywhere. He counted. SHIT. 4 chickens short. As he turned, he saw it. Jesus H Christ this thing must of been about 10 foot tall!! Towering over Michael as he stood there. He was ashamed to admit it but he pissed himself then and there. Rooted to the spot, he couldn't even move his arms to aim his gun, he felt like he was paralysed. It's red eyes staring. Just staring. It tilted its head almost in a confused way, trying to figure out who Michael was and why was he stood there. It was shaped like a human but definitely not. Its hands.. they weren't hands... they were weapons.. almost like knives. That's how it had cut all the animals up so precisely. It had skin like features for some of its body, and hair or fur in other parts. It grunted as it realised Michael was eyeing it up, The thing turned it's back. It was going to leave! and Michael couldn't move to stop it. BANG. It fell to the floor with an almighty thud, Shaking the chicken house Michael was stood in. Sending chickens and their feathers flying everywhere. There, on the other side of this hellish creature was Rob, and the rest of his friends. They had shot it. They had finally shot it. IT being they still had no idea, it was sort of humanoid, sort of animal, with knife like hands?? What in the world was this monstrosity?? They decided to keep it between them. They still had no idea why it had piled up limbs and eyes in neat piles and left them. Why did it not eat them? Why had it used paint on some of the animals? What was its purpose. It obviously had a complex brain to form decisions. The group of farmers did not want a whole shit show to go down with the press involved, trampling all over private land trying to get a glimpse of what it was, what had happened. So none of them spoke of this again, They dismembered the creature, and spread its part out all over their farms, Ironic really. Payback almost. Robs animals stopped dying. The chickens had starting laying their eggs again. He would have to wait until next year for more lambs to be born, but at least they were safe now.