On a dark and rainy night, the ancient 1980's Panel van, streaked down a narrow stoned walled road. The wheels juddered on the uneven badly maintained surface. "If we hurry we might- just- make it." said Fred concentrating hard. “Slow down Fred! It’s not safe! said Daphne. “We don’t want to be late for the Christmas Party”. said Fred. “Ristmas Party?!” said Scooby Doo waking up. “You betcha” said Fred. "I got a call on my iPhone, a couple of hours ago when you were sleeping - should be some real groovy music, and great food! “Rime rI'm Sold!” said Scooby Flashing red lights were on the ground ahead. “That’s strange” said Velma, what are flashing lights doing on the ground?” “RAILWAY CROSSING LIGHTS!” Said Shaggy- “they’ve been knocked over!” “And that means...” said Fred apprehensively - and while breaking heavily... “A TRAIN!” shouted Daphne. The van drifted to the right and then span out of control - looking like it was going to miss the back of the train altogether - however it struck the side of a stone wall and smashed into the side of the caboose, coming to an unlikely stop embedded firmly inside the speeding caboose. “Looks like we’re going to be REALLY late now said Daphne, - “the main act was supposed to start playing in 10 minutes. “I think we have bigger things to worry about” said Fred as he turned off the van’s engine as its wheels spun uselessly, suspended by ancient train wreckage. “Let’s get out of here!” said Shaggy - “I think this place is about to fall apart!” The whole gang quickly got out of the van and entered the adjoining carriage. As Velma closed the door behind them the mangled wreckage of the caboose and the mystery machine behind them twisted off the track and exploded in a fire ball of petrol and strangely magical effects. “I’m gonna miss that van” said Fred sadly. The Storage Carriage: Using her torch Daphne found a strange toggle switch on the wall which lit what appeared to be a green gas lamp in the middle of the carriage. This carriage seemed to be a storeroom for many strange products. Shelves of what appeared to be novelty jumping chocolate frogs jittered in their packets, brown cardboard boxes filled with multi coloured jelly beans lined one wall. “This is not so bad” said scraggy, opening a packet of jelly beans “Mmm Relly Reans” said Scooby eating some beans. Then suddenly both Scooby and shaggy stopped eating- their faces started turning green. “Zoinks! - some of those beans don’t taste to good Scooby!” “Rorrible” said Scooby - quickly scraping at is tongue with his paws. “I don’t think they make jelly beans here like they do at home” said shaggy “those last ones tasted like EARWAX!” Scooby turned around knocking over packets of chocolate frogs with his tail - they hopped around the small space. “Jinkies!” said Daphne - Let’s get out of here” “I agree” said Fred as a chocolate frog threatened to climb up his left nostril- Into the next carriage! The gang rushed into the next carriage surprising the sitting passengers. “The passengers were first surprised and suspicious”. “Who are you” said a young boy with bleached white hair. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to disapperate inside a train?” “Risaperate?” said Scooby “And magical talking creatures should be locked in the caboose” - said the white haired boy “Wait... WHERE ARE YOUR WANDS!?” he shouted - pointing a wand at them. “Sorry” said Fred “we don’t have wands we’re not part of your Halloween party” “MUGGLES!” said the white haired boy. “I thought I could smell their foul stench!” “Really?” said Velma screwing up her nose- “this carriage is full of teenage boys and you think we smell?” “Yes”, said Daphne “ That’s not very nice, we’ve just been in a horrible car accident, and why are you being so mean to us, - who are you anyway?” A cruel smile slowly spread over the face of the white haired boy, which was copied in the faces of his surrounding passengers. He spoke slowly and arrogantly - “My - name is Draco Malfoy- and this will be the. Last. Thing. You. Ever. See” He pointed a wand at the gang and shouted “CRUCIO!” A bright red flash exploded from the wand passing closely over Fred’s shoulder. “Zoinks!” said Scooby and Shaggy together as they rushed out of the door into the next carriage. They fell over each other and ended up on a heap on the floor. “WHAT’s GOING ON HERE?!” said a girl with long curly hair. “We’re taking care of some of your Mud Blood friends” snarled Draco Malfoy. “Go and sit down Malfoy before I unleash a spell that makes eyes explode - I’ve just been studying it” said the girl slowly and darkly”. “You can have them” snarled Draco - “Just keep the door closed to keep the smell in.” The girl raised her wand and Draco slammed the door shut quickly. “Thanks for that” said Daphne “that kid looked dangerous!” “Don’t worry about him” said the girl tossing her hair - “We’ll look after you” “My name is Hermione - and this is Harry and Ron” “Good to meet” you said Fred - “Regsactly” said Scooby who was hugging shaggy as they shook with fear” Ron held out a packet of Jelly beans politely - “Jelly Bean?” Shaggy and Scooby’s faces both turned green - “Ro tanks” said Scooby “I don’t think those agree with us!” said Shaggy. “Suit yourself” shrugged Ron eating a black bean. Harry was looking at the ground looking worried. “I suppose you’ve heard of me - I’m Harry Potter- my parents were killed by Voldemort” he said sadly. “Roldermort?” said Scooby “Voldemort” corrected Harry” “Ah Rolldermort” said Scooby” “No that’s Voldemort not ROLdemort” said Hermione. Fred looked confused “Let’s just call him ‘the guy we can’t name'” “Funny you should say that” began Ron... Suddenly the train whistle blew and the train braked slowly - “We’ve arrived” said Hermione - “you can come with us - but hurry! We can’t be late!” Harry, Ron and Hermione left the train followed by the gang. “These are all kids!” said Shaggy “I think we’re crashed a school train!” “Perhaps we can get some help from the school” said Velma as they followed Hermione. “This place isn’t even listed on my google maps- perhaps I need to update my phone” said Velma. “Wi-Fi is REALLY weak here too” said Daphne sadly Daphne looked up from her phone and saw the words “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry” on an ancient looking sign. “Ew” said Daphne and tweeted: “Crashed Car and now at Hogwarts.


It was the shadow growing beside him which stuck to him. Not the desecrated hillside, nor the growing flames beaide it. His world was crashing down on him before his eyes, yet his mind was fixated on the goddamn shadow, his own reflection. Smoke grew exponentially as ash began to fall from the sky. Like a dusting of snow, each speck falling differently. Hell, snowfall felt a little more practical to him at this point. It was mid January in the Southern Cascades yet the heat weighed him down like it was Hell in July. He reminisced about all of his youthful trips. Snow was something you could enjoy. But this wasn't snow. Shit. This wasn't even California. Not the one he remembered anyway. But this wasn't time to get all nostalgic. Myers had to dig up what he could of the drone he had just shot down and hightail it back up to Portland before the Staties could track him down. If his estimations were in the right ballpark, the scavenged parts could be resold into the green market for a solid thirty grand. The risk was high, but his pockets would be pretty damn ecstatic, which was all that mattered to him in the moment. He made sure to check that the system was disabled so he couldn’t be tracked, then managed to scavenge the last of the larger fragments into the back of the work truck. If he could get the hell out of dodge and into Portland by nightfall he'd be making a decent time. “Just twelve more Hours and I’m a new man”. He kept reminding himself. No more conning. No more scavenging. He’d buy his way up into Canada if he could. The merchants back in P-Town used to tell him about how that up North they had their shit together. Unlike the goons in office in the States, they could own up and face the realities of the ever so changing climate. That’s how they managed to hold on for this long. California and everything south was already down in the dumps, but so be it. There was no saving The West anymore, so why bother. He started the truck, and gassed it north through the smoky haze and trickling ash. Back in Portland, Walker and Adams spent the late a.m packing boxes of coffee smuggled up from Honduras. They could sell the stuff for forty bucks a pound, now that trade had been cut off the past two decades. Adding to the fact that the city went hard in its restrictions, people would go nuts for this stuff in the black market. But this was just sidework. With Myers hauling the disabled drone back from California, they had to anticipate how the deal would go down. If he arrived by the time he said he would, the trio would disassemble the processor from the main shell, store it, and greenlight their client, Edward Esteban, to retrieve his order. Esteban was no man to be fucked with. He knew the ins and outs of the green market, a term he himself coined referring to the redistribution of resources to both the drought and flood stricken areas. Sure he was all about reconstruction, but he ran the circuit with an iron fist. When he found insider information on the flight path of the Type 6 drone, he had his heart set on capturing the thing. The processor it was transporting had a plethora of vital information he could utilize to restore the impoverished regions of the Norcal as well as The Northwest. Water access, desalinization methods, information on obtaining smog converters -- he heard it was all in there. But the risk was too high for his crew to go after -- if they failed, his multi million dollar business would be fucked and the feds would fry his ass in a heartbeat. So what better way to retrieve the bot than getting a band of no namers to do it for him. After a full day of smuggling the drone up the cracked roads of the interstate, Myers was starting to close in on Portland. He had taken two calls in the preceding hours from Adams, who was preparing the warehouse. He kept circling the perimeter of the building, scouting for cops, feds, anything that seemed suspicious. Nothing. His paranoia was getting to his head again, his heart beating more and more as sweat began to seep from the cracks of his dry forehead. The poor guy was scared off his ass. He was always jumpy as hell, and he hated his job. Oh well. He knew that the position he was in sucked, but if the infamous Evacuation of 2057 taught him anything, it was that the world puts us into some pretty fucked up places. He just had to remind himself that adaption is what carries the human race onward. Zppp. Zppp. Zppp. Adams’ phone buzzes in his side pocket. His trembling, sweaty hand reaches in and clicks the green button. “Adams! It’s Myers. What’s the story on the warehouse? I’ll be in within the hour, and I want to get through this quick and clean”. “We should be set. I’ve kept in touch Esteban, who should be here by morning. The last thing I want to do is get on his bad side, so I’ve got all the shit necessary to get the processor ready. Do you even know why he needs this so bad? He’s been pretty damn insistent on knowing your whereabouts.” “No clue, my assumption is that it’s got some classified info that he can spread out, but was too much of a risk for him to go after on his own, so he contracts a nobody like me to do the dirty work”, Myers added. “Regardless, I could care less. I got out safely and after tomorrow we’ll have something to live for again. This payout is no joke”. “Alright buddy. Just don’t fuck this up, and we’ll come out ok. I’ll see you in an hour”. Adams hangs up, and heads back into the warehouse. Dusk was just starting fall, and the crisp, dense clouds -- a staple of the region -- began to collect overhead. Drip. Myers felt a speck of water seep through the roof of the vehicle on to the top of his head. He looked out onto the horizon as the last few minutes of daylight were saying their goodbyes. Clouds were starting to pick up more and more all around. Drops of rain began to fall, starting to leak through the top of the truck. Keep pushing through. Just another twenty miles, he kept in the back of his mind. He zoomed down the road, maxing out the hunk of crap just over 90 miles an hour. By the time he reached the city limits, the puffy clouds of rain had matured into thick, vicious cumulonimbus beasts. It was coming down. Myers hauled through the side streets in order to avoid potential vehicle inspection stops along the highway, as the city was starting to crack down on the black market. He pulls out his phone, and dials Adams. “I’m almost through. Open the fucking gate. Water is piling through the roof and drenching me. We have a serious storm coming in”. The sound of the lone engine coming down the street separated itself from the gushing sound of the torrential downpour. Adams and Walker could see the headlights making their way in. They slid open the gate, and the truck screeched into the warehouse. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes”, snickered Walker as Myers jumped out of the door. “500 miles and I’m finally in. Let’s get on this now. I don’t want the roadways flooding over. Esteban doesn’t have a goddamn boat you know”. The three began to slave away on preparing the fragments -- testing them, making sure everything was still in tact. But only Myers and Adams knew about processors. Walker was simply their henchman. At best he could negotiate prices with clients, but he didn’t have the same capacity of book smarts the way the other two did. By the time dawn broke, the work was finished, but the rain was only starting. Throughout the evening, the rapid buzz of rain striking the roof became white noise. Sudden storms like these became the norm, and they had just grown accustomed to it. Little did they know however that among other things, that the downpour would lead to downfall. Esteban had just called in, barking that he was on his way now before the floods would prevent him from doing so. The trio waited and waited until Esteban, accompanied by a gang of strongarms, entered the warehouse. Esteban’s crew, dressed in black raincoats with military grade handguns holstered at their sides, began to inspect the processor. The system was tested, and as Esteban carefully read over the information that showed up, a smirk began to light up his face. “Good shit fellas. Looks like I have all I need. Just know that If I find out any of this is shady -- even after selling -- its your heads that are done with first. Myers observed his demeanor. Never had he met someone so pleasant, yet so threatening and powerful just through the tone of his voice. The transaction was almost complete, and the three were in shock of how quick the process was. Wrong. They were bunkered away inside the warehouse the past twelve hours, not giving a shit as to what was exactly going on outside. Crash. The door gave in. The lights went black. The water bashed through. By God how fast it moved. Within one hot second, none of this deal meant shit anymore. It was every man for himself. Myers felt himself pushed back into a back wall, the brute force of the water pouncing on him like it was its job. If only he could see. He could hear muffled screams as he struggled to stay above the surface. The water levels began to grow rapidly, but even blind from the darkness, he grabbed onto a surface along the back wall, not entirely knowing what it was. But not much long after, the back wall gave in as well. He was pushed into the vacant flooded streets, but once again managed to grab onto the post of a streetlight. He observed his surroundings, gripping the post as best he could in order to stay stable. There. Half a block upstream, he spotted a tall concrete structure -- one he could try climbing onto to stay above the water. It was his only choice. He let go of the post, letting the water carry him directly into the structure. His back crashed into it as he bellowed out in pain. But that didn’t matter. He hoisted himself above the structure, viewing the morbid flow of water around him. He was utterly shocked. Even after a century of his country being wrecked by superstorms, wildfires, droughts, and rising sea levels, nature still had its way of saying Fuck you. His dreams of leaving for Canada were gone. Everything was washed away. the processor, his profit, his will to live even. He was back to square one. He waited out the flood for what seemed to be two days. Lucky for him, the sun cleared up finally and the structure remained intact. Then he heard shouting. He had to ask himself if he was hallucinating, but right before his eyes appeared a medium sized boat, holding around four people. “Get in”, they demanded. Myers obliged. After everything, he was just glad to be rescued, though deep down he couldn’t care less if as to whether he lived or died now that his dreams were flooded away. “Welcome aboard. We spotted you about a quarter mile downstream. You’re safe now”, the woman who helped him on claimed. He was jaded yet thankful. Then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted the processor, locked in carefully on top of the boat. His stomach twisted. He stuttered trying to find his voice. “W-w-w-what is tha-th-that” he choked out. “A processor we found washed up a couple miles back”, snapped a short young man beside him. “We’ve heard about them before. The staties put them in the drones to relay information. God only knows what this one holds though. We’re hearing that Seattle is fighting hard against this flood. Maybe it could be of good use up there, considering Portland is already in ruins. Maybe we sell it, split the profits, and head as far North as we can. We’re hearing that up in British Columbia things aren’t so bad. So are you in? It’s either that or we leave you back at this shitty old post to eventually get swept away”. Myers began to tremble, but was now again fixated on his shadow as the sun creeped out and beat down on the boat. He worked up to find his voice again, then finally answered.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Sarah, a withered and depressed, woman, had seen too much sadness in her life to believe she could ever be brought down by a simple decaying abandoned building. And yet, here she was. Her will crumbling. Her faith washing away with the rain, standing before this brick and stone. Clothing, tattered and worn, provided no protection from the rain. Although her skin was wrinkled and soaked, she did not feel the cold. The rain poured down as if God himself was crying. Each drop of rain adding weight to the steps of the people who passed. The building loomed gloomy and treacherous over the precession, taunting them with its dangerous and hollow darkness. The memories and secrets that this building held scared the passing pedestrians. It put speed in to their steps, unconsciously driving them forward until the overwhelming shadow was far enough behind them that their minds could once again rest. In the few moments that Sarah had been standing there, most people who passed thought she was just another crazy street person who was lost and drunk; not worthy of their time. They were more concerned with rushing by, thinking of someplace safe and warm they would rather be. They could not be concerned with this sad, decrepit woman who stood crying in front of an abandoned building; although, no one could see her tears. The rain hid her torment from the rest of the world, for now at least. That is exactly the way Sarah wanted it. Why share a pain no one else would understand? But she was here now to face it, to face the pain. Twenty-four years. She could not believe it had really been that long. He would have been twenty-four years old. But thoughts like that were just a distraction. The place had shut down not long after she was a patient. Too much filth and grime had built up. Hospitals are supposed to be clean and white. Sarah didn’t think that this place had ever been clean or white, even on its first day. But this place was always meant for the lesser, the lower, the unimportant. So, did it really matter if the ceiling leaked or there were blood stains on the sheets? She now stood outside and realized that while it seemed so derelict and dirty, it really did look exactly the way it had before. Sarah had been like a child herself when she first arrived, or at least she was as innocent and unworldly as a one. She had only lived in two homes. The one she was born in and the one she shared with David. David had been a nice man. Sarah’s mother and father had selected well. But you can’t make strangers into a couple overnight. Sarah had been so scared the first night they were together. She was still scared now sometimes, and they had been married for twenty-five years. The first few months had been pleasant and illuminating. Sarah learned many new things about what it takes to be a wife. She was not unhappy, but was not settled. David was a stranger, and love did not yet seem to be a factor in their relationship. The night they arrived at the hospital was rainy and cold, just like this night so many years later. Sarah had been in absolute terror. Her body was ripping apart. Just getting from the car she had stopped twice, doubled over in pain. At the door, an astute orderly recognized her distress and brought a wheelchair. Her wide eyes admitted no thanks, only fear. David pushed the wheelchair, gently maneuvering around chairs and other people. Her condition was very obvious, so they didn’t have to wait. Straight to the OB ward they went. Sarah had known she was pregnant. It was obvious after two months of no bleeding. But, even though she had only a vague understanding of anatomy and procreation, her body had felt so different. She had immediately guessed correctly that she was pregnant. It felt part of her; an extension of her being. Sarah also had known right away that it was a boy. David was not so sure and very superstitious. He refused to even acknowledge the possibility of a child until Sarah started to gain weight. Finally, one night when David put his hand on Sarah’s stomach and felt the baby kick, he smiled, sighed, and seemed to accept the obvious. The night he came, there was no doubt. Uncertainty, pain, fear, but they both new he was about to arrive, and they both, in their way, were hopeful. They were still strangers to each other in so many ways, but they had this together. They were now bound forever by this single union of their two selves. Nature is tricky in that it sometimes makes hard things easy, laying the trap of a false sense of security. Sarah labored, and David paced. The night was long, but uncomplicated. He came into the world as he should; strong, loud, alive. Everyone was overjoyed. Sarah and David beamed at their son. They were completely lost, tranquil and proud. Sarah desperately need sleep. A nurse came and said that he could sleep in the nursery for the night. Sarah was reluctant but could barely keep her eyes open. The nurse gently picked him up and quietly left the room. Sarah was asleep before the door closed. As she thought back on that night now, she lowered her head in shame. She should have never been so weak. She should have never let him go from her side. For the millionth time, she cast blame upon herself. David was right. That night, she failed at her first task of being a mother. God must have known she was incapable. She knew something was wrong when the nurse woke her. It was not a gentle tug from sleep, but a shaking call. The nurse asked where David was. Sarah didn’t know. She was groggy and felt ill. Something was wrong. The nurse looked like she was about to cry. She spoke softly and said the words that would haunt Sarah for the rest of her life. He died. Sarah stared at the nurse. She could remember the horror that washed over her. It couldn’t be true. She had just given birth. He had been right there. She leaned over the bed rail and threw up. David came rushing in. Someone had obviously told him what happened. He did not rush to Sarah’s side. While she had fear, he had anger in his eyes. He yelled at the nurses. He yelled at Sarah. What had happened? Who was to blame? Sarah did not listen to any of it. She would later learn the details of his one and final night. But the details didn’t matter. She had let him go. She had not been there. Now twenty-four years later she stood in front of the building where his whole life had taken place. She had not known she would be facing this today. She didn’t come to this part of town often, and had blindly walked down the street without thinking. Maybe the rain distracted her. Maybe she needed to see the place again. It was cold, and she knew she couldn’t stand here much longer. Not without drawing attention; a crazy lady standing in front of a crumbling hospital, crying. She turned her back to the building, and started to walk away. As she moved, she had hoped the memories would become distant as well, wash away. They did not. She still could smell him. Still could feel his warmth, even through the rain. She could still feel the terror and David’s anger, that had never really gone away. No other children had come. No other opportunities for redemption. She felt alone in the world. The following years had not been kind. While she entered the hospital as a child, she left a broken woman. David told her to forget him. Move on. But she never did. She knew that he had been there, been her love, been her child. She remembered, and that was all that mattered.


It’s been over a year since this blob of fat and mass I’m forced to refer to as emperor abducted me from my home planet as a slave. Though at this point I’m more of a secretary. For over a year I’ve had to follow this manchild around, reminding him that, no, he can’t eat the natural wildlife, he’ll be late for his meeting and his entire planet will be blown up. Atleast this time it’s somewhere nice-ish. A couple weeks ago he and a large amount of kings, emperors and rulers of this sector were called to a secluded moon on the edge of this galaxy for a “business meeting of sorts”. This could obviously be a trap, but the sheer stupidity of such a request baffled even the wisest amongst these tyrants to a point where they couldn’t help but go anyway, like a personal test of strength We were met by a personal army strategically placed around a large mansion, though it was apparently empty on the inside. It didn’t take long before the place started to fill up with guests, at this point nobody knew who the owner was. The room started filling with annoyed complaints and the usual guttural noises of the different languages. One last person entered before the doors and windows shut. Then a large hologram appeared floating over everyone’s heads close to the ceiling, displaying black silhouettes that kept changing between the various species present “Greetings ! It spoke, changing voice with every new silhouette “Welcome to my humble manor, I apologize for the wait, way too many buttons on this thing.” The room was silent at the poor attempt at a joke. “Ahem, I’ve gathered you all here, tyrants, emperors, slavers and the like for a celebration of a single thing we all have in common..” A brief pause for dramatic effect “Strength, might, power !” The mood on the room was noticeably lifted, no surprise that these people loved to be complimented on their greatness “Now, we can all agree that whoever has it will always win, and to that I propose an alliance. Think about it, surely with all of these..” It seemed to not find a good word “Great..Minds ? Yeah, that. With all these *great minds* put together the cosmos will be ours to rule !” I had seen this at least two times in the past year. The first one to suggest such a thing was shot on the spot, the second got a bit farther, but the alliance was broken because of greed and lust of power. This was basically a waste of time. “I am liking these responses so far, as would be expected.” There was a sound as whoever spoke shifted on his chair “You all have so much in common, after all.” Unbeknownst to everyone there who were paying attention, the lighting on the room was getting darker and darker as great sheets of metal started enveloping the walls. “You are all hated people with an *incredible* amount of money on their heads.” These words awakened them to their surroundings. Panic ensued within the closed off manor, the men and armies outside must have been busy judging by the lack of efforts. The hologram finally settled on a single race, one from a terribly named planet. They were very close to the others in their planet, but something in their genes granted them the ability to think, to surpass the other species even though weak and lacking any notable physical capabilities. Their planet was never voted on being granted contact to other species like everyone else. They simply left their planet one day and are now among us. Nobody liked then, basically. One of the people there pulled out a gun, firing into the hologram, which fizzled for a bit before returning to its original state. As it did so, it revealed the face, or rather mask, of K’cid, considered the most dangerous bounty hunter to ever live. “Not even a moment for hesitation, huh ?” He seemed to be amused by this “Let’s see which button was it..Uhhh..Right, this one.” A boop was heard and soon the plates that covered the room began to separate, giving way to four primitive kinetic energy based weapons that rotated around the room and began to spin with a loud whir. The blasts fired against them simply ricocheted off. “You see, the reason my species has made it this far wasn’t muscle, brains or..Tentacles..Like you bunch have. We learned to exploit the world around us: ganging up on stronger animals, luring them into traps, lying and cheating our way to the top. Now we are here, free from the boundaries imposed by nature.” As he spoke the guns started firing, corpses falling down with every single ear-ringing wave of projectiles. I jumped under a table, pushing someone else who had the same idea out. They were shot immediately. It wasn't long before the human’s monologue was over, and everyone in the room either dead or bleeding to. A door opened as the man walked in, holding a weapon akin to those who mowed down the people moments ago. He walked over to the table, shooting a couple struggling men on his way. He stopped right before the table, his mask falling to the ground as he..Celebrated. The once intimidating person started jumping around amidst the corpses, screaming obscenities of his victory “GET FUCKING DESTROYED YOU WEIRD LOOKING SHITS. READ LIKE A GODDAMN BOOK” Was the only one amongst them that didn’t include some sort of language I still don’t know. As he finished, he once again turned towards the table “Consider yourself lucky, you’re not on the list. There are ships waiting outside.” He simply said as he grabbed his weapon and walked out. I didn’t want to be close to that..Thing. But I also couldn’t spend any more time in this room full of corpses. I decided that if he hadn’t killed me yet there must have been a reason. I followed the man, walking past what once was a lush field, now stained by the blood of the many guest’s blood. Many corpses of the personal army from earlier were still there, their heads seemingly exploded from within their helmets. There were no victors in this war, except the one walking in front of me, happily picking the biggest ship he found and boarding it. He flew off, and that was the last I saw of him. I took one of the ships and went back home to my family. I instantly began working on this, as I must not forget a single detail of my encounter with the biggest threat of this galaxy. I never want to meet a human again.


“Whenever I cut my hair, my daughter asks me. ‘Dad did you get a haircut?’ And I tell her ‘no I cut them all!’” I excitedly shoot my fist in the air, but to no avail. Crickets. The audience has long since given up on their polite chuckles. I almost wish someone would heckle me. Even boos would be better than this silence. My face is radiating so much heat, I’m surprised I haven’t burned the whole venue down. The growing impatience of the crowd feels like a million needles prickling on my skin. They demand entertainment, which I cannot provide. I lock eyes with the old lady sitting in the corner. She looks ghastly. Her skin is as pale as the snow outside, differing greatly with the tomato sitting on my shoulders. Anyone can tell she doesn’t have much time left. Yet even with drool hanging from her mouth, it’s clear that she’s the one pitying me. “Whenever I ask my daughter what she wants for dinner she says: ‘I kinda feel like a pizza Dad’ and I say: ‘Oh really, well you don’t look like one!’” Most people have their phones up by now. From the corner of my eye, I catch a group of snickering teenagers recording. At least they’re enjoying my performance, in some way. Five minutes left now. This is always the hardest part of a show, the final few minutes. The audience is anxiously watching the clock. Counting down the seconds. This is probably as painful for them as it is for me. “Whenever I hang up the phone my daughter always says: ‘I’ll call you later, Dad’ and I say: ‘Don’t call me later, call me Dad.’” No matter how many times I do this, it never gets easier. The false confidence I managed to project at the start is beginning to dwindle. I’ve never particularly liked speaking in front of crowds, and making a fool of myself is definitely not any easier. “Whenever my daughter is sick, she always complains to me that her nose is running so I tell her: “Well you better go catch it.” I finish my routine to a bit of forced applause. Trying to go unnoticed, I sneak around and find myself a table all the way in the back. A few people on the neighboring tables throw me pitying glances. I almost can’t recognize the venue anymore. The atmosphere is completely different from just a few minutes ago. The room is filled with laughter and chatter. It’s hard to imagine we’re still in the same place as my great catastrophe. When the next comedian gets on stage, she is met by thunderous cheering. The room is clearly exited about the change of performer. She is obviously nervous. With shaking hands, she fumbles with the mike, dropping it to the floor. She staggers through her first sentences, eventually stopping to catch her breath. “Don’t be nervous kid, you can’t possibly be as bad as that last guy.” A rugged looking man shouts up at her. “Yea, anyone is hilarious compared to that guy.” Another person follows up. I catch her eye, and try to give her an encouraging smile. The rest of her performance goes great. Her jokes are met by heavy laughter. The mood is certainly lighter now. Everyone is relived to laugh again. As she finishes her routine, and is showered with applause, she looks me directly in the eyes. Whenever my daughter finishes a performance, she always mouths to me: “Thank you Dad.” And I know it’s all worth it.


It was evening already, and Zeus, Apollo and Hades could not reach their seats in the balcony. They were on an official business trip to Earth to check upon the affairs of the mortals, which is not so official anymore. For them, it was a way to escape from Olympus for some time, away from the usual and the monotonous business of sitting on their thrones and yelling at each other. When Hades and Zeus came to a town, they decided to see if the new show on the road is really as good as all the mortals say. “They used to do it so much better in Athens, you know.” said Hades to Zeus as a minor conversation starting line, while they stood in a line, waiting to buy their tickets. “All of the recent dramas are equally... worthless. Nowadays, they do not even mention us, and even if they do, they make a caricature of us instead of the real us. Especially me.” said Zeus in a fit of anger, provoking a lightning bolt right next to him. Finally, when they reached the guy at the ticket counter, Hades asked for three tickets instead of two, confusing Zeus. When he asked the reason, Hades said “Well, you see, brother, Cerberus hasn’t come out since the dawn of man, and he is so bored out guarding the Underworld. So, I thought I could give him a break for the next two hours, you know.”. As a response, Zeus showed Hades the ‘No Pets Allowed’ sign. Undeterred, Hades asked the ticket counter guy if he could bring Cerberus to the theatre. When inquired about who Cerberus is, Hades darkened the room and said, “He’s the meanest, strongest, most dangerous three-headed dog guarding the Underworld from the evils of all the realms.”. Expecting scary faces and thunderous applause, Hades stood there, bringing on the lights once again. But the guy at the ticket counter simply replied, “So, sir, Cerberus is a dog. So, Cerberus is not allowed. I’m sorry. I’m sure that you would have seen the board that says ‘No Pets Allowed’ outside.”. “Some theatre. Fine. Three tickets at the balcony.” retorted Hades, and explained that the third seat is for Apollo, who is overdue for a holiday for almost two hundred years. After getting the tickets, Zeus proceeded to summon Apollo from his slumber using his lightning storm. Apollo came in a very tired God. “I was in the middle of an important work” said the Apollo while yawning. “All right, To our seats. I will take the middle seat” said Hades in unusual non-morbid enthusiasm, and the duo followed him. They went into the open theatre’s and decided to follow the directions shown by the arrows. The thing was, thanks to the four-way arrows everywhere, they went to every nook and corner of the theatre except the balcony. In the middle of the fight against their newest enemy - unclear directions, Hades grew angry and tore open the ground below him. Apollo calmed him down by playing his favorite tune, and Hades closed the hole underneath him. After an hour or so post sundown, they found their balcony and took their seats in place. They just went in time for the opening number by the Maestro. Just as they sat down, the announcer came in announced, “Welcome to the greatest stage show of the world!” to which he received an immediate backlash from Zeus who yelled “It better be!” to which Hades replied, “Or we will burn the place down!” and started to laugh. The announcer murmured “Darn hecklers” and went in. “This place is even more complicated than Minotaur’s labyrinth” quipped Apollo to his theatre mates before the first act began. It opened with a bang sound, before a guy in a tunic sang “Oh life! Oh, my life! Why? Oh, my life! Mother! Your boy is coming home!” which made Apollo shut his ears. After the opening number, Act One commenced, much to his relief. The same guy in his tunic ran up a flight of stairs in the stage and in the process, fought three soldiers in hilariously bad attires. The guy then went to meet the heroine of the play, and unlike any sane man, decided to stand on the vines adjacent to the staircase. As heroine came out of the door in the set, Hades yelled, “She is even more hideous than Medusa” to which Zeus finished “And you can’t even look at her” and laughed. For the unversed, if you look at Medusa, you turn into a stone sculpture of yourself. The conversation between the pair, in short, went like this: “Hello”, “Hello”, “I love you darling”, “No, I don’t love you, dear”, “No, I do love you more”, No I do” and so on until a point where Hades yelled, “It is so cheesy that I could dip my fries in it” and laughed. The play paused and the announcer said over the mic, “Security, evict the gentlemen from the balcony please”. Apollo intervened and apologized for the disturbance caused by his ‘Friends’. The announcer said this will the final warning and with one more sound, they will be evicted. Then the play continued, with couples’ cheesy talk going on forever, Apollo felt it too, and said the other two to sleep if they found this boring. “But, no snoring” was the request. Then the Act Two followed, where their parents find the truth and go to a wizard, where he curses the guy in the tunic, to cross three bridges which are made of something. When the guy inquired what it was made of, he got a snore as a response, not form the magician, but from Zeus, who was snoring thunderstorms. Apollo masked the sound somehow, but he wasn’t sure that he masked it well enough. Then came the third act, which made Apollo uneasy. For being the God of medicine and bringing plagues, he was unusually soft, crying for sad movies all the time. Hades and Zeus woke up, the alarm being the massive eighty men orchestra that the Maestro is composing. It involved the couple running away, with the magician fast closing in on them, wanting the girl for himself. The magician spoke some gibberish, and some men, acting as dead spirits, chase them with the thunder following them, or at least that’s what the light and sound effects seems to indicate. Hades got up asking, “Who is in charge of prosthetics, the lighting and the sound mixing? It is terrible. Pathetic”. And then, Zeus got up, yelling “I am done here.”, and started to smile like a villain. “Oh no. This is not going to end well.” Thought Apollo, as Zeus, in the top of his baritone voice, yelled “See our show!” and started to shoot storms and rains next to the acting couple, while Hades brought up the dead to chased them, as any normal God of the Dead would. The crowd panicked and ran all directions. To perfectly encapsulate the situation, Apollo played ‘The Storm’, which was originally composed by Tchaikovsky. When their own performance ended, all they could see was a burnt theatre which was deserted and filled with absolute emptiness and darkness. Seeing the obliterated stage, Apollo remarked “Well, that was dramatic”.


Claire had already laid out the terms before. They were simple and effective. Yet Ehm still pouted, like an ever so petulant child refusing to go to school. “Chance... number one... mister.” She huffed and puffed between reps of squats. Her voice rattled in her throat barely audible over the morning’s pulse-pounding wake-up call. The track looped ten times that workout session, the vocals melting into their own incoherent instrument. “I hope you like what I picked today. I know it’s your favorite. ” Her sarcasm laid its trap outside the blank void that was his brooding closet. The interior’s darkness persisted with mute stubbornness. “Suit yourself.” With a shrug, Claire moved onto a set of push-ups and sweated away her anxieties for the procedure to come. After wrapping up her workout, she situated a portable speaker on her desk, pointing it directly at her writing chair. By the end of the day, the frantic tempo of her hyperfocus song would seep into the cracks of everything around her. She would breathe the upbeat melody more than hum it. But for the next thirty minutes of her morning she needed something measured and ominous. The looming minor key of Moonlight Sonata proved foreboding. Punching the volume-up button stirred her gut which growled for its first cup of coffee and pleaded for Ehm to behave. Still no bites from the closet. Beethoven’s eerie march continued. She soldiered on through her process. “It’d be easier on both of us if you would just start talking.” Ehm certainly could hear the desperation bubbling up into her mouth as she scrubbed at the first plate in the sink. Her skin formed a layer of goose bumps from the cold sweat following her weightlifting. It helped her to focus on the reek of her body odor over the dish soap’s lavender scent. Her scrubby sponge’s little cut-out smile did nothing to allay her queasiness. If only Ehm would poke his head out from her bedroom with a similar grin and an apology for his stubbornness. “I don’t even know why you’re being quiet today. We reached a really fun part of the book. You get to go on a date with your girlfriend .” She shimmied her hips and goaded him with a sing-song voice. “I thought you’d like the idea of a fair. I won’t make you go on a Tilt-A-Whirl after eating corndogs.” Unless you keep dodging me , she thought as she scoured more furiously at a set of spoons. Poking past the bedroom door frame, Ehm’s gray eyes greeted her with caution. Where Claire expected gleeful impatience for the prospect of finally kissing the protagonist, there was only a little moue fixed behind thick-framed glasses. If he didn’t herald possibly the worst part of my day I’d say he’s cute , she thought. While playing with the fabric of his bowtie, he attempted the day’s first string of words. “Do I have to?” “Yes! It’s a very important par--” His head slowly retreated back into the room. She scoffed and returned to mangling the scrubby’s cheerful visage. Claire made a mental note to help him with a confidence-building plot arc in the near future. “One more step!” she yelled over the somber music as she set a plate and fork in front of her computer monitor. This was about the time she began playing “which stage of grief am I in?” While denial and bargaining duked it out, she moved on with her morning and sauntered past the disparaged man in her closet and into the bathroom. Only the whites of his eyes gleaming from the darkness clued her in that he was still with her. The motions of plugging up her tub and fine-tuning the temperature of the water felt detached and numb. Bargaining finally won out. “Please, Ehm. I’ll let you do anything you want at that fair. Get stuck on a Ferris wheel, win Odessa a big teddy bear.” Silence. “What flavor of trope do you want? It’ll be better than what we’re about to eat.” Nothing but ear-grating silence. She sighed and slipped into the tub, focusing on the tepid water to keep from breaking another sweat. The entire basis for her technique stemmed from one of her previous morning baths. Like most discoveries it was not so much an “aha!” moment and more that it toppled into a place it shouldn’t. She was in the middle of sudsing up her arms when the bar of soap in her hands did what bars of soap were invented to do: shot out between her fingers and hit her straight in the mouth. Her body reeled at the concussive shock, dunking her head beneath the grimy bathwater as she went to gasp. Ehm had fallen into one of his sullen moods and remained stubborn and tight-lipped. The instant Claire sucked in a liter of water he mirrored her violent reaction. Arms flailing, he retched an invisible liquid out of his lungs. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the tub, glasses fogging over from the steam, and begged her through wet coughs to “never do that again.” “It was an accident!” She wheezed, throat shredded and mouth coated in a metallic acidity. Never again did she want to sample such a sickening taste, but his dripping desperation lathered up an idea. When his next session of stubborn meekness arrived weeks later, she faced him down with unblinking determination. “What are you doing?” Without breaking eye contact, she lifted the bar of lilac-scented soap to her mouth. His tongue recoiled behind his grimace. “You need to speak.” The logic was half-baked, and Ehm knew it. “How is a punishment used for naughty words supposed to make me say something?” “Does a mouthful of soap need logic?” “You don’t need to treat me like a child if you’d only listen to me.” “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all morning?” she shouted. Ehm’s muteness led to sputtering as Claire licked the bar, eliciting a gag from her as well. Over the span of months she found use for her nauseating idea. Most times, it worked. The times that hadn’t, she questioned her choice in muses. Her threat of punishment matured into a grand presentation on her office desk. She plated the bar of vanilla-cream soap and added an extra flourish of pouring herself a glass of gray bathwater. “Last chance, Ehm.” Claire sat in her chair, arms crossed and leaning forward, waiting for a response. Ehm hovered at the entrance to the office. She did her best not to mimic his weary stare at the thought of their communal breakfast. “Claire,” he whined, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Don’t think I won’t do it.” “Ple-please, no.” His plea was lost amongst the cacophony of music and left nothing but flapping lips. That didn’t count as talking in her book. “Why don’t you say something? I thought you loved Odessa.” “I do.” “So tell me all about your date with her.” His lips clamped closed once more, leaving her to huff in frustration. The fork tines pierced through the block of soap and wobbled it in front of his face. She brought his dessert-scented torture to her lips and mourned for her taste buds. I’m sorry, Odessa. But if I can’t have him, no one can! His words stumbled over themselves before she could fully bite down. “I don’t want to go to some stupid fair!” She pulled her teeth out of the bar, leaving a comical indent on its smooth surface, and wiped the shavings from her lips with her shirt. “But it’s the--” She grumbled at the bouncy second half of the sonata and flicked her thumb over the off switch. Sweet silence followed that she hoped would soon be replaced by her usually chatty muse. “But it’s the setting that makes the most sense for the story.” He fiddled with the tweed of his jacket’s sleeve, still hesitant to look her in the eyes. She tested the waters, lifting the revolting lollipop to her gaping mouth and watched him wince. Words were rendered useless when hand-wringing spoke on his behalf. She sat back in her chair and contemplated his actions. Maybe he didn’t need that confidence-boosting arc after all. “Where do you want to go instead?” Her tone remained thoughtful. Ehm glanced up in a sheepish manner and swallowed a lump that didn’t taste of sanitized bile. “The greenhouse at the university.” She nodded in understanding. “You wanted something more private.” “And quiet. I was thinking we could have a picnic there.” He bobbed his head along with her. “You know this is all I ever asked for.” The hunk of soap clattered onto the plate and she placed her face in her hands, embarrassed to look at her sweet, shy creation, who could be oh-so-talkative when given the chance. “I know. I’m sorry.” Claire’s hushed tone filled every gap she had pushed between them and invited him in with open ears. Picking up her notebook, she huddled into her chair and imparted to him a suds-free smile. His shoulders slumped with a relaxed sigh and he plopped onto the floor next to her. “So,” she clicked her pen. “What would you like to do on your picnic?”


It was a choked gasp. One through a stiffened throat and a quivering chin. Elsa knew she was too late. With desperate feet and clawed hands she pulled, hawling herself up the steepened slope. She begged, and begged. Still be there, she said. But she knew. Deep down she knew that she was too late. Her feet wept blood from the stabbing thorns and twigs that probed, burying deep into flesh. Her skirt flared, shredded strips whipping in the wind. The vegetation grasped, pulling her back but Elsa pushed and tugged forwards. No! She would shout,as her body twisted to the floor, from a stick that curled beneath her foot or a stone that thudded against her shin. No! No! No! All her life he had waited for her, all her life he would say ‘I love you’ and yet her heart never wavered. Not for him. Not then. For her infatuation stifled the love she could of had. This love. This love she now ran for, through the hedgerows, across the fields, because once more she had made him wait. How long, oh how long had he waited, she thought, as her muscles flared with fatigue and her lungs busted under breathlessness. Was it when we were kids, playing in the golden fields of hip high straw. When the wind whistled through leaves, whispering to us that spring was here. When we bathed in the warmth of a rich light with happy smiles and joyous laughs. Just three kids, playing in our golden days. ‘Did I not see’ she wheezed through lacking breath. ‘Did I not see a love when his eyes first met mine?’ At the age of eight, a little London girl, new to the Scottish wilderness. Morose from her parents loss. Fearful of new places. But Elsa stood as she was taught, tall, proud and with a smile. Always with a smile. With white stockings pulled to her knees, curled locks tied back in red ribbons and a flowered dress of white and out of place elegance. She remembered looking upon them both, two boys with dusty hair, and mud smeared faces. Ted looked on her, like a lion does his prey. To Ted, Elsa was posh and pompous, a girl who knew little of the highland ways, and had no place for these hills. Later his hands would grip at her waist. Later he would say ‘beautiful’ and ‘you are mine’ before his fist thumped back, and struck Elsa to the floor. He would say ‘love’, but he couldn’t love a London girl. One who he thought was not made for mountains. But Joe. It was Joe whose arms were open wide, even at that first sight, as Elsa stood, tall, proud and smiling. His eyes glimmered when they met hers. A glimmer that said ‘friend’, and made Elsa’s, then darkened soul, smile. ‘How his eyes gleamed’ Elsa thought. Maybe that was love? But how could she know? Or maybe it was later, when Elsa grew taller. When a child begins to realise that a girl cannot be friends with a boy. Especially two farm boys, rough in nature, cheeky in spirit, and wild with fun. ‘Playing out there with pigs and mud is no place for a young woman’ her Aunt had told her with a chilling inflection. Oh but how much Elsa loved to play. Ted and Joe, her best friends in this barren place. Friends who brought joy and laughter to a heart that ached for her parents. With age, Ted charmed the streets, with his handsome stature and amiable facade. His breath and being was worshiped by every woman, with whom he played for amusement. Even when Elsa wore his ring. On those dreary nights, when sleep escaped her with a spiralling mind, she lay waiting. With a bang of the door, and a new perfume linger, his body tumbled besides her nonexistence. Many of times Elsa would cry, and it was Joe that came. Dabbing a damp cloth over her bruised eye, and hugging an unloved body. Joe cared. Joe had always cared. But his charm did not cage Elsa’s obsession, an obsession for a man who cherished little and took a lot. An obsession for a man that Elsa could not have. ‘Stand on Ben A’an before midday and I shall stay’ were Joe’s final words, before his feet shifted and as the birds flew south, he was gone. Numb, Elsa stood. The orange glow of a new day cleaved into the room, where Ted lay in a liquor stench. With tearful eyes she looked up, through the glass window. Birds flocked, south they went. ‘Oh let me come with you’ she whispered, with watery melancholy. Just as the bird flaps its wings, Elsa picked up her skirt and ran. She ran through the frosty air, her breath casting clouds of steam in the calm serenity of dawn. Forwards she hurried, ‘let me fly next you, and leave this place. Let me choose you’. Rising on Ben A’an, a roof to her home, her silhouette was cast by the suns apricot glimmers. Mountains were her home. Nature was her freedom, in its purity of no judgement or time. Elsa stood and looked outward, hoping she stood in sight of a man that she loved. A man that she had always loved.


In the hot, crowded market at Takapuna, sweat trickling under my arm, I pull out my sleek little Nikon 35Ti. It is the final month of our sabbatical in Auckland. Four-year-old Daniel is leaning toward a tray of baked goodies, small glazed confections slathered with gooey white, dotted with teasing reds, sprinkled with edible glitter. On the first Saturday every month, this vendor comes by with tray after tray of exotic delights--and is sometimes mobbed by people “in the know.” But we are not; this is a spur-of-the-moment occasion. “Look this way,” I say, and Daniel faces me, but his eyes slide toward the tray, and his face telegraphs such raw desire that, even as I snap the photo, I feel myself weaken. Give in to temptation , I think. We could all do with a break. * * * Three decades later, as I clear out my home office, I am struck by the frozen image: a busy, sun-drenched market where a curly-haired boy inclines his head toward a baker’s stall and a woman raises her eyebrow as if to say, “Why not?” Around them--around us--for I was the typical shutter-bug dad recording this moment for posterity--the photo contains disembodied elbows and stroller wheels and net bags of avocadoes of a crowd of people. I study the photo closely. In the distance, dozens of tie-dyed T-shirts were fluttering that day in one stall, and in another, back massages were being given, with curtains of clacking beads giving customers the illusion of privacy. Just an ordinary Takapuna market day, an activity that we would never repeat again. It would become extraordinary. We were in the throes of saying farewell to our Kiwi friends and associates, ending this chapter of our lives, and I was in a photo-taking mood. I was constantly stepping out of the flow of the moment, trying to grasp time by its slippery edges, saying, “Now,” and twenty minutes later, “No, now ,” and riling my dear Calista in the process. As if moments were like butterflies that I had to impale to admire them, destroying them as I sought to preserve them. What drives me to force a permanence on things? The scholar’s urge to record, reflect, possibly redo? I dress it up as an artistic urge to find the most esthetic combination of position and color. But lately I’ve come to think it’s a form of greed. Nearing the end of life, I am still wanting more. Even before that fateful day, I loved photographs. They are a way to draw a line in the sands of time, to demarcate “before” and “after”--lest experience flood our sensory channels and wash away everything. And in this photo, none of us would ever forget the before and after. Calista says my bouts of camera compulsiona are part of a sickness I have. I overthink the moment. I read too much into the randomness, she says. Although this is my most memorable photo of all our travels, I keep it in this tough protective plastic tub. I look at it seldom. Its strength is to be hidden, not displayed, like electrical wiring that powers a grid, buried inside walls and devices. * * * Excitement pervaded the Saturday market. Smells of ripened fruit hung heavy in the air. Shells of fresh oysters on ice clattered as Calista put a dozen in a bag. The rhythmic chant of sellers announced deals to be found, right this way. The steam rose from the dumplings booth; a small roar crackled from a juice-blender. “Please-please-please,” Daniel begged from time to time. For a Transformer toy, for a Chupa-chup lollipop, for a sticky ball from this tray. Should we cave , I wondered . Buy the treat that he’ll never forget? It was a genuine quandary. We were convinced that sweets raised the blood sugar and made him impossibly hyper. We were laughably inept parents then: so earnest, so correct. So misguided. How bad, really, could our four-year-old be? He was one of those impossibly cute kids, all curls and dimples and big clear eyes that allowed him to get away with murder. Up to that point, what were his infractions? He’d broken Grandma’s fancy blind by yanking on a cord; he’d up-ended a table of petit fours at a legendary tea shop; and most notoriously, he’d knocked over a gallon can of latex paint on a shag carpet. As parents, no matter how violently we fussed and fumed that he must behave, there was always the “wild child” inside, especially when he was coked up on sugar. I too had been a kid unusually susceptible to sugar. I was the worst of my siblings: my sneaky fingers poking into boxed chocolates not meant for me, prying off bits from gingerbread house displays, gouging through cream icing on lavishly decorated wedding cakes. But I was an ugly boy. I had big yellow beaver-teeth, a buzz-cut meant to pre-empt lice, and ears like two tablespoons affixed to the sides of my head. No one would ever say, “Give that dear child a sweet.” * * * Daniel wants so badly for us to try these delectable goodies that we finally give in. I glance over the table, see flies alighting here and there and point to the one tray without small things flitting above it. Soon a colorful bill passes from my wallet to the grinning vendor’s hand. The shine of sweat and oil makes him look glazed, too. He spatulas three concoctions onto white frilly papers and we cup them in our hands as we step toward an alcove. Saliva builds just thinking of our edible treasures. Snip! snap! Like fairy-tale wolves we tear into them. There is barely any sweetness. Suddenly my mouth is filled with an overpoweringly hot spice. Daniel bites his snack once, emits a cry and lets the item fall from his mouth to the ground. Tears spring from his reddened eyes. Calista and I fare much worse. We are too civilized to spit out something directly--without a paper napkin properly before us or a cup to spit into. I turn aside and cough-gag it into my hand. The entire cavern of my mouth feels like it’s now missing a layer of skin. A scouring pad scrubbed over tongue and palate couldn’t be worse. In the back of my brain, I am connecting two and two: why had I chosen the pastries avoided by fruit flies? “Now are you ha--” Daniel begins to say and he starts to chuckle as he sees Calista and me helplessly weaving out of sight as we try to hide our rudeness. Calista spits hers out and curses--first time ever in public, in front of Daniel. “Now are you happy?” Daniel gasps. He starts to giggle uncontrollably. A wet patch darkens his little khaki shorts. Oh, we are a sight, I’m sure: the over-careful parents, always making sure of clean faces, pleasant demeanor, decent language. “Now, now, calm down,” he squeaks. People are turning to look at the small Napoleon and his reeling red-faced parents, who are incapable of rebuttal. * * * Even then, it was evident that Daniel liked to turn the tables on us, liked to grab the reins from our hands. Although he was only four, he’d heard incessant messaging: brush your teeth--comb your hair--say your pleases and thank-yous. Another famous slogan was “Play-time’s over.” One spring day, while looking for the sprinkler attachment, we’d emptied the garage onto our back lawn--piles of rusting tools, dusty flowerpots, and bundles of tarpaulin. Our tempers were frayed. Yes, we had junk; no, we couldn’t find the sprinkler attachment. We were grousing at each other. Daniel bounded into the yard and said, “Play-time’s over, put away your things.” It was a surreal moment when we heard our pet phrases echoed back to us. The irritation vanished. Yes, we had junk; moreover, we had a reminder in the flesh why we must not let our spirits succumb to the slings and arrows of daily aggravations. Unexpectedly, my eyes sting. If Calista came upon me now, teary-eyed in the dusty old study where I have dragged out this tub of photos, packing up, she’d be likely to say it, too: “Play-time’s over, put away your things.” It’s one of those family phrases traded between us. Even now, when Calista and I visit Daniel and his wife and his six-year-old twins, we are apt to hear the incantation “Play-time’s over” or, if the foosball game gets out of hand, “Now, now, calm down.” But Calista, looking at the photo, seeing my tears, would need no explanation. She knew what happened next--that day in Takapuna, after I had snapped the photo, after we had bit into those horrid snacks. Before Daniel could finish his sentence that day, a sudden blast knocked him flat. And Calista, too, was abruptly on the ground. I staggered toward them, arms outstretched. The shock, the terror, the sheer incomprehension on their faces--were no doubt mirrored on my own. The next hours were a blur--screaming, sirens, and a trip to the nearest clinic where I was pronounced “fine but shaken.” Daniel and Calista were treated for scrapes and bruises. No-one died and the blast was soon found to be due to a gas leak. It was not a “big thing,” scarcely enough to garner a mention in the local news at six, but it unnerved me. No matter how much I loved them, I had been unable to protect them. The blast imprinted in me that moment of desire and disappointment, of adventure and vulnerability. And random chance. Random, random chance. THE END


The tick-tocking sound of clocks surrounded the old man. He was studiously putting together something he believed to be one of his finest works. It was a more modern looking clock, sleek and shiny. It was far away from his normal method of clock-building but it had a definite sway of beauty in it that would captivate any the beholder. He was just putting the finishing touches on it. He was a hard looking old man who seemed dedicated to his craft above all else in the world. He was short in stature and slightly rounder near the middle of his body which gives way to the idea that he either liked the sweeter foods in life or that he did not get around very much. He was gray of hair and lacking any on top. He had quite long and unkempt beard which fell between his thighs while seated and to his stomach while standing. He was also missing a few teeth which made him whistle certain sounds when spoken. The old man was in a very large room, deep on all sides and quite dark except for the small candle light which lit the table in which he worked. All that could be heard in this cavernous room is the echoing of hundreds if not thousands of ticking clocks. Yet despite the cacophony of sounds, it left a kind of silence which allowed the old man to work undisturbed. “Aha! Its done!” The old man said gleefully. He held his new piece of art in front of him and admired it for a few moments, beaming all the while. He wound the clock up and put it to his ear to listen. “Ah, just as it should be.” He waddled over to a side of the room, each step he took looked harder to do than the last but he managed all the same. He placed the clock on the wall and adjusted it several times to ensure it was just so and then backed away to admire his work again. On this wall were layers upon layers of his finest achievements. So many there were that it was surprising he found any room at all for his newest accomplishment. He stared proudly a few minutes more of his handiwork before retreating slowly back to his desk. At which he began drawing out a new design, one which would surpass even his newly crowned jewel. Due to being thoroughly engrossed with his new project he did not hear nor see the man who had suddenly appeared directly in front of him and who silently watched him work for several moments. “Good evening to you Father.” The man said. The old man jumped back with a sudden start that he almost fell out of his chair. “Good heavens child, do not start me so! I am old as it is and do not need your help in finding an early grave!” The man was no more than thirty years of age. He had medium length black hair which was sleeked back. He had very strong cheek bones and would have looked even more intimidating than he did had he not had a resting smirk on his face which seemed to be his default look. “What is it you want my boy?” The old man said still attempting to slow his racing heart. “I apologize for startling you so Father. But I do believe we have matters to discuss.” The younger man said. “Is that so? What matters do you believe so important as to appear before me during my working hours?” The old man replied. “The Masters have been a long time discussing change in structure.” The younger man said. “I have heard nothing of this boy, what is this change you speak of?” The old man asked. “The world is changing Father and we need to change with it. We believe it is time for you to step down as Father Time and let someone else take your place.” The younger man said. “What is the meaning of this? Are you mad?” The old man laughed. “Do you believe anyone else is capable of doing this job other than me?” “Yes. As a matter of fact I believe it wholeheartedly.” The younger man said darkly. As he spoke these words, several other men came out of the shadows which surrounded them and encircled the table. The old man looked around astonished then recovered himself and frowned deeply. “I believe I made a grave mistake trusting--” Before he could say anything else, the young man clapped his hands together and rotated them while muttering some words under his breath. With that, the old man froze in his chair no longer speaking nor moving. The others lifted the old man out of his chair and carried him off out of the room. All that remained was the ticking and tocking of his many clocks.


“ You smell the blood, don’t you? This iron heavy scent beckons you, while dangling white-meat legs try to find the invisible ladder and escape from here. But there are no ladders in our world, right my friend? We...” - Boss, it is ... emm... time! - a lady’s umbrella-shaped head appeared in the narrow door chink. Her tiny jellyfish eyes glanced at the majestic figure of the Boss who was holding a tiny toy-shark in one hand and a tin soldier in another- Are you ... emm... playing with toys again? The Boss flinched and dropped the items on the red-wood table. The ringing tin sound filled the room and suddenly stopped as the giant Boss’ hands covered the source of the sound. - They are ... emm... in the conference room. - The jellyfish head waited for a second and after receiving a short nod slowly disappeared behind the massive doors. Even though she was gone, the waves of this emm sound were still in the air, enshrouding the Boss and leaking deep into his ears. He winced and started scratching ears with a tip of a Montblanc pen. The ticklish sense filled his body and a slight smile pushed frequent face wrinkles apart. For 10 years she has been working here but still cannot talk properly. The Boss stopped scratching his sprawling ears and glanced at his left hand. His stiff fingers gently unclenched and revelled the palm-sized soft toy-shark. My old friend . What an irony, ha? They let this jellyfish work here, the person who cannot create, cannot think on her own and cannot even speak without a filler... But they want to destroy us. Do you know why? The wise eyes of the shark glanced at him with note of sadness. Because we. are. old. The shark was slowly being moved across the massive red-wood table. It swam across the golden desk calendar with a miniature of Laocoön, dived in the half full golden cup, and swam out at the green lamp. Suddenly it froze in the air. The Boss wearily put the shark under the dusty ray of light. My friend, you have bald patches on your back! He cautiously stroked the shark’s fur the wrong way but the bold patch didn’t disappear. He licked that place and the transparent liquid changed the white colour of the bold patch to the black. Now it is better. No one can see. Don’t worry, my friend. I have the same. He boldly lifted his wig and without hesitation put the toy-shark on the top of his bold head. You see. Nothing to worry about. We still rule the world. The Boss slightly started spinning in the chair carefully holding the shark on the head that was observing the dark wood panelled office. The room was the mix of the elegant wood book shelves in the Victorian style and wild plants on the red wood floor. The maritime paintings on the walls and miniatures of ships on the shelves helped the shark to make itself at home. The red sofa and leather armchairs in the middle of the room were drowning in the fleece of the black carpet under the light of the golden chandelier. The Boss continue spinning and the shark was able to see the rest of the room: the massive arch doorways in which any moment the jellyfish umbrella-head might appear, and a giant mirror next to the table. The Boss finished the tour as they reached a large window behind his back. Do you want to come closer, my friend? To see the real world? We can do it if we try. The sun rays supportively held the shark on his head while the giant figure of the Boss was slowly rising. But as soon as he stood up, the black dots swam before his eyes. He started blinking and rubbing his watery red eyes to force these dots swim away. They didn’t, but the shark did. It plummeted with a beanbag sound on the floor. Trying to find the balance, the Boss leaned back on the table but unintentionally knocked the golden cup off the table. The heavy shards drifted on the red-wood floor and the brown liquid started slowly devouring the shark. Hold on, I’m coming! The Boss stepped towards the window and grabbed the green curtains that freely descended from the window cornice. His right knee could not bend properly so he distributed his weight to the left leg and slowly went down. The left leg started shaking and the Boss sweepingly slide down on his butt. With the cloth rip sound the curtain fell and covered his giant figure. - I’m.. almost... here... - The Boss’ muted voice, interrupted by the heavy breath, reached the tiny ears of the shark. As soon as the Boss got out of the curtain, he saw his friend that was half drowned in the coffee lava. Hold my hand. The Boss’ ancient fingers almost touched the muzzle of the shark but it was not enough for grabbing it. The dark dots started dancing more distinctively in front of his eyes. He dropped his hand on the floor and a tiny shatter of the golden cup painted a scratch on his firm skin. Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll find the way. You just stay there, ha? Flicking the blood drops from the hand, Boss was looking around. The crumpled curtain, the chair, wires, a trash bin... I cannot use it. I cannot... Wait a second. My walking stick. He glanced with the contempt at a bamboo walking stick that was leaned towards the wall. Finally, you are useful. He greedily grabbed it and fished the shark out. The toy was completely brown but Boss strained it to his heart without hesitation. Don’t worry. We will fix it. We can wash it out. The coffee liquid was slowly dropping, imbruing his suit. But he didn’t stop hugging the shark. - Boss, ... emm... are you coming or ...! - the squeaked voice of the jellyfish lady filled the room again. - BOSS! - she cried and ran towards him. The Boss’ watery red eyes focused on the approaching lady. The colour of her suit was mingled with red walls creating an illusion of the flying head with jiggling tentacles. Jellyfish is coming, ha? The Boss hid the shark into the inner pocket of his blazer. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the wall. - Boss! What is going on? Why are you ... emm... on the floor? - she squatted down and gripped his hand - is it blood? Are you hurt? - No, I am not. Just help me to stand up - Yes, Boss! Let’s do it on the count of three! - she chunked her high heels away and stood in the firm position. - One ... emm... Two. Three! The Boss clung to her arm and with heavily panting tried to stand up. The red stripes from his grip appeared on the soft jellyfish' hand. She held her scream back and used all her strength to lift him up. The Boss stood up but the dizziness didn’t let him to stay straight. - ... emm, let’s sit, shall we? - Holding the Boss with both arms, the lady moved the chair with her bare foot closer to the Boss. He crumpled on it. The lady straightened up and rubbed her back. - Oh Boss what happened to your... emm... hair? She carefully lifted the wig from the table but the Boss snatched it from her hands. - Nothing. He put slovenly his wig on the head and hid bloody hands with the shark under the table. - I will be back in a second with ... emm... the First Aid Kit? - she suggested timidly. Then she looked at her dirty feet and added- with a mop ok? The Boss nodded. She nodded back, grabbed her high heels and without putting them on, rushed into the hall. We didn’t manage to see the real world but we still had our small adventure, ha? The Boss carefully opened the pocket and looked in the shark’s coffee eyes. Do you think we... The sudden sound of the knocked down door didn’t let him celebrate a small victory. The chandelier trembled with fear and clang from despair. Three silhouettes broke into the room. - What is going on, Faaaather? - the most giant figure of all three cried out. - we’ve been waiting for you for two hours! What are you doing here? Sleeping? The giant figure crashed on the sofa. He fidgeted there for some time but his long legs did not let him sit comfortably. He was the same size as his father and some features of his face proclaimed his kinship: his outright nose was trying to reach the thin downward-turned lips but the tiny forest prevents it. - Even if I was sleeping, Phanes, I can do it. It is my company and my time. And you are my employees. If it is necessary you wait for million hours. - The Boss closed eyes, trying to stop the dizziness. But the pulsating temples were too intrusive: BuM BuM BuM. Another man who had a feminine face and a scrawny body was still standing in doors with folders in his small hands. He fixed his half-frame glasses and with a thin voice announced: - Ye- BuM, Boss BuM, ple BuM ase ac BuM cept o BuM ur dee BuM pest... - I do not hear you! - the Boss barked and without opening eyes impatiently pointed on the armchair next to Phanes. - Come closer or turn your male voice on already! - Yes, Boss, - the man in glasses did not come any closer but he raised his voice - please accept our deepest apologies for this barbaric invasion but we cannot wait any longer. As you are, we are businessmen.. - - And businesswomen -the deep female voice ranged out behind his back. - And, as it was aptly noted by our colleague, businesswomen... - Yeah, Thymbr. You are much like a businesswooooman. - howled the giant figure from the sofa. The Boss quietly laughed and sweaty drops dripped on his interlaced fingers. Red-faced Thymbr breathed out and continued: - We were sitting in the conference room and doing nothing for two hours. The smile was washed away from the Boss’ face. Have you heard it, my friend? They wasted time again. - You should have learned how to manage time effectively, Thymbr. A piece of paper and a pen are enough for spending two hours productively, don’t they? - Bot Fother! Some of os cannot sit for so long! - the woman with a big belly stepped out of the Thymbr’s shadow. - we hove our needs. You could at least tell os that you were not coming. - Afi, if you cannot sit and wait, go home and do whatever you want there. Stop doing business if you are not capable of doing it. - You connot talk this woy with a pregnont woman! - she squeaked. The Boss took all his strength and stood up. - And you cannot talk this way To. Your. Boss. The powerful wave of his voice pushed three of them away. Phanes stopped fidgeting and Thymbr turned from red to white. Afi closed her belly with two hands and backed toward the door. The Boss wrecked on the chair. He turned away from visitors and hid himself behind the chair’s back. - All three of os connot do any business, you know it, fother. - Afi mumbled - Phanes is stupid and Thymbr is weird. Why om I worse? - Woooow, woooow, sister! - Phanes jumped from the sofa and moved towards Afi - we are sooo different. There is no way you get the company. - You think so because I om a woman - she whispered and backed away. But the giant figure of Phanes reached her in a second. - No, Afi. It is not because you are a woman. It is because you are an illiterate prodigal. - Phanes leaned down to her stomach and continued with a fake caretaker voice - Baby girl, you should know that your dear uncles graduated from universities, while your mommy got pregnant at school. - Stop it! - Afi pushed him away. But he grabbed her arms and continued: - You dear mommy didn’t get any education and skipped all professional trainings that were organised for her. She spent the fortune on the wedding and got divorced in a month. - Stop it! - she pushed him stronger and started crying. Thymbr hurried to protect the sister and stood between Phanes and Afi. Phanes stepped away and said with his normal voice: - I do not care that you are a woman. I care that the person who cannot control her own life or money can easily destroy the company in a week! You don’t deserve it. - I beg you a pardon, Phanes but you behave in inappropriate way - Thymbr muttered. - Oh really, Thymbr? Look here, Faaaather, two girls united against me. Girl power! - he wanted to flick Thymbr but the brother dodged it. - Father gave you four chances to prove yourselves. - Thymbr whispered - Not three, Phanes. Four times. I’ve never had such opportunities. But you had. And you failed. How the company can be entrusted to the person, who cannot learn from his own mistakes? You don’t deserve this company either. Thymbr helped Afi to sit on the armchair, while Phanes was knocking the edge of the carpet with his shoe tip. - You think your email-answering-machine-way-of-talk will help you to become the head of the Company? - Phanes demanded - No, it won’t. Father can hardly hear you. And it is not because he is old. It is because you are a softie. A softie without a kernel. No ideas, no actions. You are empty. Thymbr clenched fists and moved towards Phanes but Afi grabbed his hand. He stepped back and pronounced: - With all due respect, brother, you are wrong. Let’s ask the Boss. - he glanced at the chair back - Father, we have to know in which hands the future of the company is. We are convinced that the changed we’ve implemented will prevent the company from the chaos. We... - Faaather, you are eighty years old! You cannot be the Head of the Company.- Phanes impatiently interrupted. - Fother, you most think about the members of your fomily... Just tell os the noime of the heir - she placed her hands on the belly and mover towards the table - I om for exomple... My old friend - The Boss carefully got the brown shark out of his pocket. - I cannot help them. They are going to die because they do not know how to swim. - But you, Luke, are a human being, too. - the shark swam up to the right shoulder of the Boss. - And you will die even though you know how to swim. - What will happen to the company? - the Boss looked at the shark’s loopy tail - Do you really want to know? - Just curious. - Afi will have it. - Afi? I thought she doesn’t know anything about the company and she doesn’t care about it. - She doesn’t. The shark leaned its head on the Boss’ cheek. - Did we have a good life, my friend? - We had a perfect life, Luke- the shark whispered and gently stroke Luke’s nose- Do you remember what was before we met? - Were we are not swimming together from the beginning? - No. We weren’t. Don’t you remember yourself as a kid? As a human kid? When you didn’t know anything about the sea - I don’t remember that. - Do you remember your parents? - No. - Do you remember your first love? - No... - the Boss wrinkled - I do not remember her. Why do you ask about my past, my friend? - Because you and I are ready to swim out to the deeper sea. I wondered what we should take with us. The curtain that was crumpled on the floor began crawling towards the chair and blue water from the paintings started flowing down. - I have everything with me... Will you be with me when it happens, my friend? - Of course, Luke, I’ll be with you. I am with you. The curtains waves with a splash flooded the room. The miniatures of ships became bigger and knocked the walls and people out. The massive masts gored the ceiling and the golden chandelier with tinkling strove upward to the sky. - open your eyes and breath! - the voice of his friend rang out. The Boss felt as cold water went through the gill passages. He opened his giant eyes and saw the monochromatic marine world. Rare sounds of gurgling reached his inner ear and he turned his massive muzzle to that direction. Some indistinguishable fish and a jellyfish that were swimming right in front of his jaw were swallowed by him immediately. The Boss looked down. The grey chairs, sofas, shelves and empty paintings disappeared in the abyss. - Thank you, my friend. Now I have peace.


Leo Walker drops his children off at school, but he is thinking about her. It's his morning routine, or has been since he stumbled into a coffee shop two blocks away from the school. That's where we met Anita Rosales, a twenty-something college student who works behind the coffee shop's counter. He goes there every morning now that he knows her schedule, even though it is not on his way to work. She normally wears a pair of yoga pants that fit so well that they become her second skin. She greets him with a smile, which he seldom receives from his wife at home. Every morning since their second child was born, she has resembled a cross between Gollum and Jabba the Hutt rather than the woman he married. This morning, as he gets his coffee, he thinks to himself, "If I could only have one night with this gift from God, that's all I'd need." The scenario is entirely in his head; in truth, Anita is so exhausted most mornings that she operates on autopilot, hardly seeing the customers who come in. She is programmed to take orders, make coffee, and collect money like a robot. But that really doesn't matter because he's obsessed. In his mind, he had imagined them falling in love while sharing a macchiato and making passionate love on the coffee shop floor while the other customers look on. His order has been completed, and she calls out his name, "Theo." And, despite the fact that she misspells his name and the coffee tastes like burnt toast, he tries to slip a dollar into the tip jar. For the 20th time in a row, she misses the tip, and he heads to work. Anita Rosales attends City College at night and looks forward to her Psychology 101 class with Professor Leroy Quinn. The way he says the term psychodynamic raises the temperature in the room by 20 degrees, forcing Anita to unbutton her blouse. She is aware that he is married, but that doesn't matter; all she wants is for him to get to know the real her, and he would leave his wife and make love to her in his office, which is actually a converted janitor closet, but she doesn't know this. She can tell he works out because of the definition of his muscles through his ordinary polo shirt, with biceps so taut that she begins to worry about the fabric of his sleeve being able to contain all that power. He hands back the exams when the lecture ends that night. Anita glances down and notices her "C-." She runs her finger over the grade; his pen touched this page; she'll fantasize about him again tonight, making love while he grades papers. Leroy Quinn had no desire to be a psychology professor. He had always had a sense of adventure and only took the job till he had enough money to travel the world. His love of adventure got him in trouble during his first year of teaching when he slept with one of his students. She was a teenager, only 18 years old. The temptation to prove it was more than a fling compelled them to marry a year later. Things have changed five years later, and this formerly sane, youthful taboo has started to reveal her true nature. When Leroy does something she doesn't like, she transforms into a five-foot-tall version of Sam Kinison and Lizzie Borden. Leroy can't wait to get to the gym and work off all his stress as he exits class that night. He's especially excited to see Andrew Peralta, the gym employee at the front desk. He's bought 57 protein bars, 13 protein drinks, and four t-shirts with the gym logo on them in the previous two months; the sad part is, he doesn't even like the protein bars, and the t-shirts look like they were drawn by a five-year-old unsupervised. These brief interactions, on the other hand, provide him with the opportunity to spend a few minutes with Andrew. After a few conversations, he still doesn't know anything but his first and last name. From Leroy's perspective, he is clever, intellectual, and completely swept him off his feet. Andrew will one day take him in his arms and carry him around the gym like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentleman. They'll both quit their jobs and spend their days making love on the Caribbean's sandy beaches. Unfortunately, despite Leroy telling Andrew his name several times, Andrew still has no idea who he is. He smiles, nods, hands him a towel, and waits out the rest of his shift so he can finally leave. Leroy walks into the gym tonight, and Andrew hands him a towel. Leroy points to a protein bar and tries to strike up a conversation; "have a good one, buddy," Andrew says, blanking on the name. In college, Andrew Peralta met the woman of his dreams, Alicia Maynard. They quickly became friends, but unfortunately for Andrew, they've been friends for the entirety of their time together; friend-zoned by the love of his life. Despite several tries, he has failed at every point to move the relationship ahead. Andrew fantasizes about them fleeing to Europe and making love on trains. It's always trains for some reason; he thinks it has something to do with the rhythm of the tracks; I guess don't knock it till you try it. Andrew and Alicia go to bars, hang out with large groups of friends, and speak all the time. The bottom line is that Alicia simply does not feel the same way about Andrew. She prefers a mature man with responsibilities, as well as a family man that is loyal and loving. Andrew is simply too immature, has no regard for the future, and constantly wears those hideous gym t-shirts. Alicia Maynard is employed by a small financial firm. Leo Walker, one of her coworkers, brought his kids in one afternoon after they got out of school early for a half-day. She observed what a fantastic father Leo was and fell in love with him right away. Alicia dreamt about them making love all over the office, despite the fact that he was married. In the mailroom, the elevator, and on the copy machine. In one such scenario, a company-wide memo served as foreplay for their sexual rendezvous. Alicia spends one-third of her day fantasizing about Leo, whom she believes is a faithful husband who would only leave his wife for her.


A man and his wife are in their home on the countryside, excited about and decorating for the coming fall season. The wife is happily placing pumpkins and corn husks around the house, when she asks if the husband wouldn't mind a quick trip to the market to pick up something she'd forgotten. The man leaves the house on foot and before long is confronted by a grim looking witch. The witch demands that the man leave his wife, or she will curse the town. A great fight erupts and the man and witch have it out, crashing through the woods and causing much havoc. Finally there is an impasse. They stop their brawl and in the pause realize the futility of their actions. They strike up a conversation and manage to hit it off. The man finds himself intrigued by the witch, and as such often makes trips "to the market" in order to see her. The two fall madly in love. They meet in secret for years, never telling anyone of their arrangement. Many years later, after much decorating and priming for the fall holidays, the man and his wife find themselves in front of their home admiring their work. There is an enormous puff of smoke and the witch appears. Having grown sour over years of meeting in secret she arrives at the house furious and looking to expose the man. She tells the man the deal is off - he can agree to a life with her and all will be forgiven. If he declines, she will conjure a great vortex and all that he loves will be sucked into it. While pausing to consider the vortex begins to swirl around the witch. The townsfolk can be heard screaming in the distance as the massive vortex gets bigger and bigger. The man, seeing only one solutions decides to act. He throws his wife into the witch, knocking them both into the vortex. With squelch the vortex disappears. The man walks away relieved.