There are four of us in total. Our host is preparing a meal as we wait in emotion-charged silence around a well-decorated, rectangular dining room table. Three candles burn in the middle of a golden tablecloth laid over it, placed in careful alignment with the gaudy chandelier suspended high above. There are three doorways within the dining hall. One leads to the kitchen, the other to the lounge. The third door is closed shut and I find myself puzzling over where it leads. The walls are thickly armored with avid displays of artful paintings. I am particularly struck by the one of a well-dressed, old woman sitting on a red, cushioned sofa, smiling. There is something about her which draws me. Her lovely attire, or perhaps the warmth in her smile. Staring at the paintings reminds me of my mother, who used to paint for a profit in her life. She died in a car accident when I was six years old. I was there. My father, the driver, survived, and so did I. My father did not cope well with her death and turned to drugs for coping. He eventually got arrested for drug-possession and child-neglect when I was nine, and I've been in a foster home since then. My life hasn't been easy, but there has been a consistent pillar which has kept me adrift through all of the experiences it dumped on me. This pillar comes in the form of our host and my personal hero, Amoray. I've known Amoray since I was ten. She funded the foster home that used to be my dwelling and used to visit the kids there several times a week, making sure that all of us received proper treatment and provisions. Her visits brightened up my entire existence, and on the days that she neglected to show up, I would hold my breath and trust that she would return. She always did. As the days and weeks and months and years stretched out, so did her visits. That was until the shelter burned down and took nineteen others with it. There were only three teenage survivors, including myself. I won't lie, that was an experience straight from hell. I was outside when it all began. I remember hearing a loud, booming noise. I hurried inside to a horrid sight of Mario and Viv, now dead, engulfed in combustive flames. The rugs on the floor and the furniture all around were alight, too. My attempts to quench the uncontrollable flames were met with resistant cackles, my desperation to save lives swallowed up by the scorching heat and suffocating smoke. If I persisted upon becoming a hero that night, my body would have also turned into ash among the pile of rubble. The memory of the two screaming teenagers and the stench of burning flesh has stuck with me since that catastrophic night, the night when I witnessed my only real home crumbling to ruins before my very eyes. My train of thought is interrupted by firm footsteps from the kitchen. "Celeste," Our host's hoarse voice calls out from the kitchen entrance. "Will you please come through and give me a hand? The food is ready." My eyes land on the girl on my right. Celeste is pretty, but strange. We're the same age, but she's been in foster care for much longer than I've been. She always keeps to herself and hardly shows any emotion. Truth be told, the only time that I have ever spent any time with the girl was on the day of the fire. She was inside when it erupted and barely escaped with her life. The girl, just seventeen of age, has sustained a pretty nasty burn along the length of her neck, torso, arms and back. It took her two months to recover in hospital, but the tale tell scars are clearly visible underneath the clothes that she tries to use as tools of concealment. The dark girl with the pallid skin and the inky black hair, whose gaze was also lost in one of the framed works of art around us, looks up with a look that suggests that the place she visited was far, far away. I am curious as to where the art took her as she mumbles her consent and follows Amoray into the kitchen. At least the fire did not catch her face and hair. Those are still pretty, at least. Don is sitting at my right. He's big and has a reputation for being aggressive. A deep scar runs across his right cheek. He used to have very long hair which was, unfortunately for him, consumed by the ravenous flames. The damage is not too bad, but he's bald now, and not very happy about it. In my private opinion, he ought to be grateful. Don and I do not get along. We have gotten into many physical fights. His bulky body and uncompromising nature have always intimidated me, but I've never showed it. I usually reacted to his aggressive ways with more aggression. I fought back every single time. I've gotten my nose broken and my shoulder dislocated because of it, but he got a couple of nice, flashy bruises and a few delightful limps from my retorts. I was always strategic in our fights, making sure to consistently target his left shin to get him off my back. There was no way in hell I was going to turn into some bully's punching bag. I've experienced enough of that from my estranged father after my mother's untimely departure. "Whose to say it was untimely?" Amoray once pointed out with a careful, calm voice during one of her visits at the foster home. "There's a time for everything, dear one. We all ultimately have to die one day, in one way or another." If those words had come from anyone else's mouth, I would have been brutally offended, perhaps even violent. However, Amoray's words instilled a sense of fleeting comfort within me. I could understand that the occurrence was not meant to be personal. It was the law of nature for everything to eventually die, or transcend, or morph into something else. Nothing is everlasting, and that includes my mother. We all die in a manner that we are destined to, regardless of what, or who, we leave behind. I get it, but I still hate it. It's unfair. Where does Amoray's so-called God get off bringing us here only to have us suffer like this? Where's my happy childhood, my loving relationships, my mental sanity? Screw life. I don't wanna live it anymore. As though to veer my train of thought off track, the elegantly tall woman walks into the dining room holding two trays. Celeste follows right behind with the same, an impassive expression on her face. She reminds me so much of that one wolf girl in a series whose title I can't recall. Don clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. I think he's a little threatened by our host. Amoray is kind and understanding, but can be super firm and unflinching in her assertiveness when she needs to be. She's a leader of a church, you see. To be a leader, you need that skill. You need it in order to put people like Don and myself in their place. It works for me because I've never actually gone out to harm anybody, whereas Don has actively sought out to pick on me. I never understood what his problem with me is. Anyway, despite our attempts to conceal our riff, Amoray appears to always pick it up. All she usually gives me is a rebuke which mentions something about refraining from fighting fire with fire. I don't get that. Am I just supposed to be a doormat? Amoray is dressed in modest, casual clothes under a frilly apron. I'm used to seeing her in formal clothes and it feels strange to see her in a simple t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. I guess it makes sense, since this is her home. Her golden face carries a lot of discernment, and the shallow, almost imperceptible creases on her forehead give away her age a bit, otherwise to me, she looks a decade younger than forty, her actual age. Thick eyebrows arch beautifully over her dark brown eyes, always alight with wisdom and insight. When we make eye-contact, I feel like she sees right through me. I feel naked, but in a good way, because there is not the thinnest strand of judgement in her gaze. Just... love and acceptance. The two females sit at their allocated seats once the dishes have been set down. A fresh plate of hot spaghetti bolognaise stares up at me, and my stomach growls audibly. The last time I checked the time, about half an hour past, it was 2:54 pm. I haven't eaten since 6am. I'm famished and I fight the urge to immediately dig in, just to be polite. "I just had to fix a quick meal for you," Amoray begins with a smile on her face. Early in the morning, she gave all three of us a phone call to invite us to her home. After the fire, Amoray kindly arranged that we live in one house of hers which was conveniently unoccupied at the time. A three bedroom house with a kitchen, two bathrooms and a lounging area. It is small enough that the three of us regularly clash, but big enough that we can peacefully keep to our own private spaces if need be. We never really spend time together. We're the same old strangers, only this time, we're occupying a different house. But for the daily chores allocated to me, I usually just binge-watch a shitload of series and read comics. "Thank you for the food," Don speaks for the first time in a while. He and I have a tendency of ignoring each other to the point of not even making eye contact. This time, however, against my default preference, I look at him. To my dismay, my gaze lands straight into his, and before the count of three, I look away. I don't really want to stare long enough to see what lies beneath those dark, beady eyes. Knowing that the boy hates me is enough. Digging up the depth of his hatred is pushing it. So I don't look into his eyes for long. Instead, I fix my gaze on Amoray. "When do we get to dig in?" She's sitting across from me, and I revel at how easy it is to make eye-contact with her instead. "Since you're in such a hurry, why don't you say grace for us, then?" I so badly want to say no, but I don't. Instead, a half-hearted mumble of thanks escapes my lips and a few seconds later, we're all eating. The food tastes amazing. Amoray begins to speak. "I'll get down to why I called you three here," she says after setting her fork down and folding her arms over the edge of the table. She's obviously not as famished as I am. "I have a story that I would like to share with you." She alternates meaningful eye-contact between all three of us. "As a little girl, I used to get beaten a lot. For minor things, for major things, for all things really. I simply could never get it right, no matter how hard I tried. I had two other siblings, but for some reason, I was the only one my mother mistreated. My father saw what was happening and stepped in at times, until he didn't. My two sisters eventually teamed up against me because of that. We all went to school and back home together, but at both places, I was never treated like I belong. We went out as a family sometimes. It was in public that I got a bit of relief, because mama never really showed any preferences then. Under the glare of the eyes of many strangers, I stopped being a scapegoat. "Fast-forward to my late teens, and I was an expect chameleon. I lived to please others and did not know why. I kept to myself a lot. I didn't speak to anyone unless I had to, and I was highly suicidal. I ended up in hospital twice from attempting to take my own life, and despite being notified each time, none of my family members visited me during my hospital stays. When I returned home after my second attempt, receiving no special acknowledgment whatsoever, I packed a few clothes and ran away, never to return again. "The commencement of the second decade of my life was hellish. I bounced from place to place, from one kind stranger to another. Thank God I didn't end up in the streets, but that did not mean I stopped attracting dogmatic authority figures into my care. The kind strangers always revealed darker intentions with time. My mother never reached out. I had no friends. I was alone in the world and no one came through to save me. In my late twenties, I got into prostitution and fell pregnant. But it wasn't a paying customer's child. It was the child of a pimp who got under the roof he granted me for the exchange of my then-defiled body and raped me, the child that he later drowned in dirty bath water because I was making him lose his money. Nevermind that I was healing from a very complicated birth process. My daughter's name was Dayhila and she was only ten days old when her life was taken. At twenty nine years, I was a crackhead and lived for nothing else but crack. I had no one and I had nothing." Amoray stops speaking. The room is dead silent but for a few hesitant sounds of fork against plate. Why the hell is Amoray telling us this story? "I know that you look and me and think that I have a good life filled with great relationships and monetary comfort, but you need to know that I was once where you are. I was in a dark place out of which I never conceived to escape. The only difference between you three and my teenage self is that I didn't have anyone to make sure I was well taken care of. You do. I've always been there, since you were just children." The silence stretches out as Amoray pointedly stares at us. "In the last few months since the fire, I haven't stopped visiting you and being that consistent guideline to how you should treat each other, but I am displeased by how you three have been wasting your opportunities to grow and become better people. I am utterly displeased and I don't think that in the future, I'll be so willing to keep you under my care if you carry on the way that you are. You are not little children anymore. "Your current actions and behaviors make up your future. I'm willing to help you create those futures. I am and have been here as an example to follow. Follow that example starting today. The time has come for you to build your own relationships and stop clinging onto me as though I am the only human being that exists within your midst. You are roommates. You live under one roof. You have been brought together for a reason. Start getting along and while you're at it, consider carefully just how fortunate you are." She pauses, then as if to lighten the heaviness of her previous statements, she adds softly. "Only when you begin doing that will your lives truly begin. Love one another, for God's sake. Just as I've loved you." Suddenly, as if by some realization, I know who the old lady in the painting is. She's the lady who got Amoray out of her pit of hell. Through Amoray, she saved us, too. Celeste, Don and are still silent, totally abashed, by the speech just dished out to us. We give each other wary looks, and say nothing still. Amoray's story has kind of changed my perspective, and as I look at the two roommates on either side of me that I barely even know, deep, deep within the core of me, I begin to feel an openness towards them. An openness which will perhaps one day lead to the things I long for. Opportunities to make long, solid relationships are right in front of me on a daily basis, and yet, here I am, holding on to the bitter past and worrying about all the things I don't have. I realize now what Amoray is trying to say. I think we all do. She's telling us that if we follow her ways, then we're opening ourselves up to opportunities that will enlighten our lives and usher in all the good that is clearly evident in her own life. That we won't be doing anyone else but ourselves a favor by listening to the advice that she has to offer. It really does change my perspective, to know that my life-long suffering was perhaps not in vain, and that I, too, stand a chance to get out of my hole if I choose to listen to my wise host. I'll sure be returning to her for advice, that's a given. As we prepare to leave, Celeste says the closing prayer.


Molla dug her claws through the soft earth with the enthusiasm of a cat sitting in rain. Miserable yet unavoidable. Then, her claw pierced through the wall and into a cavern. Her eyes burned at the sudden light and she shielded herself. She blinked. The den mother’s stories said that light from the solar would immediately burst her into flames, yet she felt fine. Instead of burning, she felt hot. Clearly, they exaggerated the tales for the runts. Curious, she plowed down the rest of the wall and into the cavern. A large ray of light bore down into the cave and onto a pile of rocks. In a mess of rubble, a man groaned. He wore a strange orange vest with silver stripes that threatened to blind Molla. She got on all fours and scurried over to the edge of the solar spot. The heat was unbearable. He must have been in significant pain. Molla tested the light, sticking her elbow into the light. The exposed pale skin immediately blistered. He must be from a different den, she thought. Her kind didn’t have the resilience to solar that he had. But she couldn’t just leave him. Pulling the rope and hook off her back, she set to work. The first several tosses she aimed for the rocks that covered him. They rolled off the pile, clinking loudly against the other stones. Molla flinched, inspecting her surroundings for any sign of Burrowers. The large eyeless moleman-eating worms hunted by sound. Her heart thumped in her chest as she heard the faint sound of slimy skin inching through dirt. She froze in fear. A beast emerged from behind a corner. Raising its black needle head, searching for sound. The man groaned again. Molla was helpless to do more than watch. The burrower poked its head towards him, then its snout touched the light. It roared in pain, jerking its head back, retreating to where it had came from. Molla’s breath rushed out of her chest and she fell to her knees. Even the apex predator of Subterra couldn’t handle the light of Sol. Then what was this man? With the rocks cleared, she landed the hook under the man’s shoulder and pulled him back into the safety of darkness. His skin was red, but that was the least of Molla’s intrigues. His hands were so short and skinny, and he bound his tiny feet with black leather, tied tight by strings. She tilted her head, confused. What kind of moleman could bear to have their feet bound like this? How did he dig with those pathetic claws? Her finger snapped through the strings of the leather and she found his feet, which were even stranger. They were tiny, clawless, and missing a joint. No, the joint was there. It was just tiny and useless. His den left this poor mutant to die because of his repulsive disfigurements. Molla huffed, the cruelty of some dens was too much. She nodded and wrapped the man around the chest with her rope and hook, deciding she’d take him back to her den. Hopefully, the den mother wouldn’t be too upset about it. But Molla refused to abandon him just because he looked a little silly. ~~~ The long tunnel of Molla’s making led to the den. She ignored the grunting and groaning of the man dragging behind her. There was nothing she could do until she got him somewhere safe. It would be foolish to stop in the tunnels. A stationary moleman practically asked a burrower to eat it. As she shimmied down the hole, she wondered how this mutant had survived to adulthood. It wasn’t possible for him to navigate the Subterra pathways with those feet, and digging was out of the question with his clawless hands. She shook her head. The poor thing probably had enough judgement for one lifetime. A glowing green circle was ahead of her and she smiled, finally entering safety. They rimmed the large room with star vines that emitted a comfortable dim light. “Molla-nati-nana, what is this?” The fat moleman with a yellow hat asked. Molla winced. He only used full names when he was angry. The boss waddled around her to inspect her passenger. Pressing his claws to the bridge of his nose, he sighed. “Where are the metals? The food? Why would you bring back some weird pet?” Molla moved back to the man and stood her ground between him and her boss. “His den abandoned him, they left him in a ray of Sol.” “Den? A ray of Sol? Molla, this ain’t a moleman.” She cocked her head, “that’s rude, just cause he looks strange, he’s still one of us.” “Look at it, if that’s a moleman, I’m a mermaid. Put it back.” “No,” Molla shook her head furiously. “I won’t abandon him.” “Save the compassion for your own kind,” the boss said, crossing his claws. A sign of agitation amongst the moleman. “Throw it in the pit with the rest of the trash.” “You’re a burrower, a beast! How could you?” “It won’t survive down here, anyway. It’s mercy.” “What? Of course he will.” The grizzly moleman poked his furry eyebrow with his knuckles. “Listen, just throw it away and forget about it. Those things shouldn’t be in Subterra.” “I don’t care, I’m saving him.” She pulled on the rope and headed towards the den gate. Two burly molemen, with edged steel covering their claws, blocked her path. “Move. I demand an audience with the den mother.” The guards looked at each other, and then to the taskmaster. He waved a dismissive claw, “let her through, she has the invoked the right to appeal. Nothing we can do. Not that it’ll do anything but waste your time. Den mother is gonna see it my way.” Molla wrinkled her nose at the boss, eager to prove him an oaf and a fool. She heaved the rope over her shoulder and pulled the man across the trail to the den mother’s dig. She’d understand. ~~~ The den mother’s dig was a paradise for moleman. Wet blue moss covered the round room and shimmered in the light of the star vines that covered the upper bowl of the dig. Artists had carved minimalist etchings of significant events in the den’s history and the moss clung in the deeper cracks, creating a visual of depth and life always present to those appealing to the den mother. Molla, barely above a runt, only had two rights. To life, and to appeal. Whenever a minion disagreed with a superior, they were allowed to appeal to the den mother. Luckily there wasn’t a line, and only the current appealer, the den mother and her personal guard were present. She was a beauty, fat lined her cheeks and gave her body curves impossible for the average moleman. Molla touched her tight skin self consciously. She’d never be able to eat enough to look like that. “So what do you say den mother?” The appealing moleman asked. “You agreed to a debt, a debt you agreed was over five shovel tadpoles. I see no reason to clear your debt.” “But he said--“ “You said, he said.” The den mother barked at the shrinking moleman. “I won’t tolerate hearsay as your only evidence. Pay your debt in full.” “And just forget about the five tadpoles? I’ll be broke!” “Tell me Doo-ga-tana, what do you think that dig of his is worth?” The den mother asked the moleman, swollen with muscle, beside her. The guard smiled, tapping a claw thoughtfully on his nest of chin whiskers. “How many flakes does a shovel tadpole go for? Ten? Twelve?” The appealer fell to his belly. Pleading, “My dig--“ “Quiet. Doo is calculating,” the den mother said. No longer needing to raise her voice to remind the moleman of the difference in their statures. “I’ve seen it, nice hole, pleasant location. Close to the tunnels. I’d say it’s worth... Eight hundred of those tadpoles.” “I can’t sell my dig for--“ “The punishment for failing to pay debts is exile. Downgrade or be a burrowers snack,” the den mother said. Doo chuckled, “your choice.” The moleman got off his belly and bowed, clenching his teeth. He left the room, his eyes downcast. His shoulder slammed into Molla’s knocking her off balance. “Move,” he grunted. Molla steadied herself and took a deep breath. She couldn’t let this affect her. The den mother would only respect her best. After regaining her thoughts, she approached and bowed her head onto the dirt floor. “Den mother.” “Your name?” The guard asked. “Molla-nati-nana. From the C tunnels.” “What is that?” The den mother asked. Molla lifted her head to see the den mother scowling. “during my tunnelling, I came across a cavern, I found this mutant. His den abandoned him. My taskmaster ordered me to toss him into the pit. I can’t do that. Please let me--“ “Slow down girl,” the den mother said. “Mutant? He hardly looks like a moleman. Is it... Could that be a human?” “Human?” The guard said, pulling his claws up into position to attack. “The evil children of sol.” The den mother nodded. “Yes, I’m certain of it. That has to be a human. Listen to your taskmaster and toss it.” “He is not an it,” Molla said. Was he really a human? She wondered. In the tales they were mostly evil, however, that wasn't true of all of them. “Didn’t you listen to my tales? The children of sol are poisoned by her heat. They are evil.” “I listened,” Molla said. She extended a claw to the first etching in the moss. “I listened with the language gifted to us by the human. Tales of the humans evil are balanced by tales of good. Tossing him like he’s trash is evil.” “Don’t preach to me, girl.” The den mother narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her rosy face. “I know where the spoken word comes from.” Molla bowed, forgetting her place as always. “I’m sorry den mother, I meant no offense. It’s just... It’s too cruel.” “Isn’t it more cruel to keep it alive? Their kind can’t survive down here long,” The guard added. The den mother nodded, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s right, that’s right. We can’t risk it being evil, and it would be more cruel to keep it alive.” It. It. It. It was a living being, not a thing. “Would you toss a runt that has cavern fever?” The guard took a step forward. “Den mother would never!” The wealthy woman raised her claws, sparkling with gems, stopping the guard. He shrunk back to his post, biting his lip. “Does this one dig with her tongue?” The den mother smirked. “She’s oftly quick with it. No, we do not toss our own. The den must keep hope that none of them will be abandoned. But Molla-nati-nana, he is not one of us.” “Then I will take the burden on myself.” Molla said, crossing her claws. Doo laughed, “a tunneler, take care of a human?” The den mother glared at her guard, “I will tell you when you may mock our appealers, never assume that you may decide that on your own again.” She sat up and dug her claws into the throne made of iron. “What do you propose?” “I-- I’ll nurse him back to health, a-and help him return to Solterra,” Molla said, stuttering on her own shock. Did the den mother just defend her? “Unacceptable.” “But--“ “Take him to the medic. You might get lucky and be able to return him, but I have zero faith you won’t accidentally kill him with those diggers. Sol, look how you’ve already dragged him.” Molla turned around and saw the man laying face flat on the dirt. His entire body covered in a coat of dirt, dust, and scraps. “Oh.” Then she turned back with a smile and pressed her forehead to the dirt, “Thank you den mother. Thank you.” She rushed out the room and headed for the medic’s dig. “Stop treating it like a sack of mushroom spuds!” The den mother called after her. The matriarch of the den leaned back into her throne and smiled at the tunnel. Doo cleared his throat and bowed. “I’m sorry for my earlier outbursts,” he said. The den mother waved it away. “Most appeals it’s fine, you and I both know how stupid some are. But that girl... She has the making of a den mother, don’t you think?” Doo opened his eyes wide, parting his lips, unable to say anything. “It’ll be interesting if she survives this burden.” ~~~ “It’s mostly contusions, no broken bones, but he took a bit of a blow to the noggin. Not sure how much of this was from his fall, and how much is your fault,” the medic said, adjusting his glasses. Molla tapped her claws together to a rhythmic tune, looking away to hide her grimace. “Yeah, suppose I should’ve been more careful.” The medic sighed and pulled back the man’s eyelid with his declawed hand. He waved a fresh bulb of a star vine in front of the humans eye and smiled. “At the very least, he’s not concussed.” He picked up the man’s thin hand and shook his head. “Incredible phalanges. These would be so useful.” “What? He can’t even dig, they’re useless.” “So closed minded. What good are your hands for besides digging?” He asked, pointing his declawed finger at Molla. “What else is there?” The medic leaned back from his work and raised an eyebrow at Molla. “Really? Why was it the den mother sent you to me? The medic.” She sucked in her lips and turned her head even further away. “Oh... Right.” “Anyway, without a concussion he’s safe to wake up. Get ready. He will be confused.” The medic moved over to his wall and pulled out a white packet. He sniffed it and jumped back. “Whew, that stuff is potent.” “What is it?” “Smelling salt. A whiff of it and you’ll be wide awake,” he said, smiling with slightly beady eyes. Molla furrowed her brow, “is that... Safe?” “Plenty!” He moved towards the human and took a deep breath. “You might want to hold him down.” Molla moved to the human’s side and pressed down on an arm and leg. “Like this?” “Sure. Sure. Yes. Ok, let’s go.” The white sack touched the top of the human’s lip and his eyes shot open. His focusing pupils shot back and forth from Molla to the medic and he hyperventilated. “Relax, you’re safe,” she said “Who... Where...” He looked around confused, his pupils shrinking, adjusting to the light. “Ah AHH!” his eyes focused on Molla’s claws. His strength was too much, and he jerked out of her press, scrambling off the table, hitting the dirt with a thud, backing away to safety. “We won’t hurt you.” He pulled a strange metal contraption off his hip and pressed a button. The sound was like the spring drip, only a hundred times louder. “Hello? Hello? Anyone hear me?” The machine crackled like a fierce water leak. He cursed when the tone didn’t change, throwing the machine at Molla’s head. She jerked back and shut one eye as blood trickled from her brow down to her eye. The medic rushed to her, but she held up a hand to stop him. Kneeling down to his eye level, Molla put her hand on her chest. “I’m Molla. You?” She pointed her claw to his chest. His eyes darted through the darkness, trying to find an escape. “Molla he’s not listening, we should--“ “Molla,” she tapped on her chest, then pointed to the man again. “T-t-troy.” She reached out her claws. He flinched away. “Molla won’t hurt Troy.” She said, purposely simple and direct. Putting her palms on his shoulders, she smiled. “Troy is safe now.” “Wh-what are you? Where the hell am I?” “We just saved you runt, don't be rude.” Molla shot the medic a one eyed glare, silencing him. She wiped the blood from her eye. “We’re molemen, this is our den.” “Ha...” Troy laughed, growing more hysterical by the second. “This is a prank? Where are the cameras?” “Camera?” Molla asked the medic. He shrugged. “These props?” He pulled on Molla’s claws. “Make up? Give it up, I’m not fooled.” The medic groaned, moving himself further away. “He’s lost his mind.” “He’s just confused. He doesn’t remember falling.” “Falling?” Troy pressed his hand to his face. “That’s right, I was... There was a cave in.” He sobbed. “I’m going to die.” Molla whacked him on the head with the back of her claws. He blinked and looked back up at her. “I will return you to your home.” ~~~ Troy complained about something or other for the thousandth time as they scaled up the tunnel. “How can you do this? Let’s take a break... Where the hell is my boot.” Molla stuck her claw into the dirt wall and hung to look down at Troy, who was sticking his useless hands and toes into the holes she made. “how many times do I have to tell you to be quiet?” Troy looked down and grumbled. Molla shook her head and resumed the climb up the tunnel she had made earlier. Troy didn’t stop his complaining, but at least he had lowered his voice. She couldn’t even make out the words. Then a rock dropped in her stomach. Where she burst through, into the cavern, was pitch black. The rays of Sol no longer burning bright. “No. No, where is sol?” “Huh? The sun? I don’t know? Is it night?” “Night?” Molla asked, poking her head into the large empty space. “You know, when the sun sets... And it gets dark...” Molla blinked at him, annoyed by all the words he used that made no sense to her. “Right, you live in caves, you wouldn’t know.” Troy said, climbing up onto the pile of rocks that buried him earlier. He cupped his hands over his mouth and tilted his head back. “Hello!” He shouted. “Can anyone hear me?” Molla’s heart dropped, and she jumped on top of Troy, covering his mouth. “What the--mphmm mmm.” He struggled to pull her paws away from his mouth. Molla was scanning the cavern and hissing at Troy for silence. Then she heard it. The unmistakable scratching of slimy scales on dirt. Her heart thumped, and she pulled Troy up to his feet, glowering at him. You idiot, her eyes saying. The black needle head poked out from a tunnel. It stuck out it’s sword like tongue, tasting the air. Tasting them. Troy’s eyes opened wide, and he opened his mouth to scream. A natural reaction to the horror of a burrower. She pulled her hands over his mouth, begging him in her mind to just shut up. Troy resisted and the two of them fell down the rock pile, bringing a wave of dust with them. The burrowers head snapped towards them and it rocketed itself forward. Molla stuck one claw into the dirt. She held on to Troy with the other. A burst of strength and she shot the two of them forward. One claw got stuck, snapping at the base. The earth roared behind them as the burrower slammed into the cavern wall. The world shook. A storm of stone rained down from the ceiling. Molla squeezed herself into a crevice, pulling Troy in with her. He looked down at her hand, covered in blood. It wasn’t just the nail that broke, the blood vessels were gone too. She would never be able to grow it back. Troy’s shoulder touched hers, the cramped space forcing them together. “Are you--“ “Shh,” what part of ‘be quiet,’ was so hard for him to understand? The burrower emerged from the dust, shaking its slimy body, letting the rocks slide off. Its head pointed towards them, then away, then back. Molla held her breath. It inched closer. The black tongue touching the edge of the crack that held them. She wrapped her arm around Troy’s and squeezed close to him. Tears burning at her eyes. Lips sealed shut. There was a snap. White light flooded the cavern from the hole where Troy had fallen. The burrower screeched, racing back to the darkness. “Trooooy!?” A voice shouted from above. “Are you there!?” “My crew,” Troy said. “They found me.” Molla slid out from the crack and exhaled louder than she ever had before. Troy was next to her, their arms still linked. The strange touch comforted her. He turned to her and pressed his lips to hers. She jerked her head back and pushed him away, “wh-wh-what was that?” Her face burned like Sol was shining directly on it Troy scratched at the back of his head, “ah. sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You saved me... Again.” “But that’s-- that!” “Trooooy!” Troy groaned, like he was under rubble again. He grabbed her paws and squeezed tight. “I’ll never forget you, Molla.” “Molla-nati-nana...” Molla corrected, wanting him to know her full name. “It’s beautiful... I’ll never forget it.” “Trooooy!” “I’m down here!” He yelled. Molla wrapped the back of her claws on his chest. “Don’t tell them about us, the molemen that is.” Her face flushed again. “Our world shouldn't exist together.” “I promise,” Troy nodded. She pushed him away. “Don’t you dare forget it,” she said, before scurrying back to the tunnel and diving in. Her paws pressed to her face, feeling so hot. She peaked over the ledge and saw Troy starring at her through the darkness, a rope landing beside him. “Goodbye mutant.” ~~~ Troy was wrapped in a blanket, and a line of his coworkers formed to embrace him. “We were so sure you died, dude,” one said. “But then your radio activated. Though nothing got through,” another said. Troy looked down to his hip, realizing he had left it at the medics. “Oh, I threw it when it didn’t work.” “You worrying about something as stupid as a radio right now? Insurance's got that. All we care about is you’re safe. It’s a miracle.” “Yeah it was a miracle,” Troy said. He looked at the flood lamps that pointed down into the cave, and into the darkness. “This might seem like a weird question,” he said. “But does anyone know anything about spelunking?” ~~~ /r/QuarkLaserdisc Critiques welcome.


A fictional story unfortunately based on real people. All men are carsalesmen, and it is only a matter of time before you find out he sold you a lemon. -Ana Raymond was a man, and an arrogant one at that. He was the type of man that was sure of himself, a man who possessed that perverse, yet often quite comical, faux self-awareness of the many gifts he had to offer to the world. And by the world, I mean to half of the world’s population, and by half of the world’s population, I mean the feminine half. Yes, Raymond was one of those infallible men who believed himself to be a gift given directly from the Universe itself to the women of the world. Yes, Raymond was a rather handsome man. Being the ripe age of thirty-three, he had a full head of dark brown hair that he kept cut short and combed over with two bright emeralds for eyes that often wandered from lady to lady. He kept himself in relative shape, disciplining himself to stay on a strict bicep-curl regiment three days a week, and Raymond was relatively tall, but the type of tall that didn’t make one think he was tall, just that he wasn’t short. All his life, Raymond had it easy with women; approaching them, talking to them, loving them, and most importantly, leaving them. That was what he was best at. It could almost be seen as a sort of twisted talent how easily he could abandon those he persuaded to sleep with him. No, a woman could never satisfy Raymond for long, and it was no fault of their own. How could it be? It was simply in his very nature to leave. You wouldn’t fault a polar bear for his hunting of a helpless penguin would you? As a polar bear is indifferent to the penguin’s life story, its family, or stories of its mundane job, Raymond couldn’t be bothered to care less about the women of the world. The amount of knowledge he had on each one he seduced was their hair color and maybe a name, if he even bothered to remember, but other than that, Raymond had no desire in learning about these people. Why should he? They were women, they had nothing to offer worth mentioning anyhow. From his angle, he was blessing these lowly women with his presence, his look a generous gift, his touch a miracle from God. With false promises of passion and romance, he’d shower las mujeres in compliments, praising their beauty and bodies, relentless in his pursuit of the diamond in their muff, until at last, he would finally have them. Always telling them he’s only passing through for one night, Raymond would take them to a random hotel on the outskirts of town, fuck them all night long, and in the morning, they would awake to a pre-typed note always beginning with, “Hey You,” saying how he regrets he couldn’t stay longer, that before he left he stopped and stared at them as they slept, thinking how beautiful it would be to wake up that face every morning. But Raymond was already back home in his own bed, sleeping soundly well into the afternoon before his next night time excursion. Raymond sat at the bar, taking long sips from a strong cocktail, his eyes wandering around, drifting out into the restaurant before him. The restaurant, a small, intimate supper club he frequented most weekends, always reminded him of when he was a boy gazing up into the night sky in the midst of summer; a thick darkness with the tiny flickering of candles on each table twinkling, dancing, like little stars far away. In the back of the room lay the stage where four men in black suits played together in chaotic harmony. Horns blared and competed and synchronized as the drums and bass maintained the rhythm. Their faces were the only ones visible throughout the jazz supper club, each one of them glistening with sweat from the heat under the focused stage light. As he looked around the joint, he couldn’t see any of the faces of the patrons, all black shapes with no features; silhouettes that occasionally caught the flicker of the candle, revealing a small glimpse of a woman or a thinly mustached man, but for the most part, each person might as well have been a shadow. While the main dining room lay in darkness, the bar where Raymond sat every Saturday night remained relatively lit, allowing himself the pleasure of observing the multitude of people who occupied the barstools each week. Yet there was something different about this week. Raymond had seen the usual crowd, the typical Saturday night clientel wearing overly elegant clothing and too much lipstick. He had trained his eyes to see through their off-brand Gucci dresses and eau de parfum, but something peculiar stuck out to him that night. Something sitting at the end of the bar. One of the light fixtures above the bar had busted, and, instead of pointing off-center, was fixated on a single stool at the end of the bar, and in said stool a woman sat. Not just any woman, but a woman the likes he had never seen before, a woman who immediately drew his gaze with her ebony hair that shone like black silk in the yellow glow. Her face golden, serene, her body wrapped tightly in a white dress that was reminiscent of a Michelangelo sculpture. She sat with a friend, a thicker woman with a rambunctious laugh that bothered Raymond twenty feet away. The cheerleader effect, he thought, taking another sip, eyes locked on her like a starving wolf. She brings the fatty to make herself look better. I see your game, girl. You’ll be something else once Fatty leaves. As if the larger woman heard him, she got up, giving the white-dress woman a kiss on the cheek, and left. Wait a moment, thought Raymond. This woman in the white dress. Nothing was changing about her. She was just as beautiful now as she was with the fatty next to her. All those years of studying Barney Stinson’s philosophy on women and finally, something contradicted what Raymond had always believed to be fact. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; at least top ten in his list of women slept with, but before he could rank her, she would have to first be on the list. He finished his drink, stood up, adjusted his tie and pressed his pants, and Raymond, with all the confidence in the world, approached the white-dressed woman. Ana was a woman, a very smart one at that. I met her long ago, and such an impression did she leave on me at first glance that I had to know her story. So I, like Raymond, approached her one summer day in the middle of a park and asked for her name. Born in a Cali, una ciudad caliente del sur de Colombia. Con un ritmo delicado pero fuerte al caminar, casi parecía que diera minúsculos pasos de baile, pero era el compás de su origen, inconfundible. De pelo negro largo, abundate y aletiado, como si hubiera dejado que el viento lo hubiera estilizado durante el dia. Ojos oscuros, intensos, fijos, amables y coquetos. Pero definitivamente su sonrisa era la que inundaba el salón con aura de alegría, el tipo de sonrisa que hace olvidar el correr del tiempo y recuerda vivir en el instante. Since then, she has become both my closest friend and wisest teacher. She taught me the most valuable lesson of how to be a real man, and she told this through a story she began with a man named Raymond approaching her in a dimly lit restaurant as trumpets played far away. “Hey there,” said Raymond, sitting next to Ana. “How’s it going?” Ana said nothing, fixed her focus on the four men in black suits playing on the stage. “Buy you a drink?” “No,” said Ana, taking a sip from a golden-yellow glass of something Raymond could not pronounce. He always had trouble saying non-American words, but never cared enough to learn. “I’m all set.” “I see that.” Raymond called the bartender over who had been polishing the same tumbler glass for the last hour. “Two of whatever she’s drinking.” “ Veuve Clicquot, sir?” the bartender confirmed, lazily lost in work autopilot. “In American, thank you.” The bartender sighed and shook his head. “Bubbles.” He snapped his fingers, like a Hollywood douchebag might snap his fingers when he says “What’s up, big man,” cause he couldn’t care to remember your name. “Thanks, big man.” Raymond turned to Ana who seemed to be pretending he wasn't there. She wished he’d just buy the drink and go, but oh no. He would persist. “I haven’t seen you here before, miss?” “Maybe you just didn’t see me.” “So what’s your name?” “Ana.” “Ana. That’s a pretty name.” “My mother thought so, too.” The drinks finally were poured. Raymond slid two single dollar bills to the bartender, who looked at them with utter disdan in his hands. What an asshole. He pocketed the cash and resumed his detailed polishing. Raymond on the other hand thought himself a good dude for helping out the little guy. Drinks in hand, he returned to Ana, who had since turned back around as the band had paused. “Bubbles?” He set the glass down in front of her. She glanced at the glass and pushed it to the side. “I’m good, thanks.” Why doesn’t she want the drink? They usually don’t mind the drink. Even if they walk off, they always take the drink. “I’m sorry, Ana,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend.” “It’s alright. Thank you for the offer.” She turned back to face the stage as the band started back up. “It’s just I was sitting over there and I saw you under that light, and I thought you just might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” She stopped and turned to face him, looking into his sickly, greedy green eyes. Not just the tongue of snake, but the eyes of one, too, Ana thought. It was in this moment that Ana knew the man called Raymond would not leave her alone. All the signs were there: she had yet to engage in conversation, denied his already purchased drink, and had barely even looked at him till then. He was either really stupid or extremely persistent, either option unappealing. Ana knew Raymond’s words rang hollow in his presumably empty head, words that he had probably heard Ben Affleck give in some ridiculous movie, and that he never really knew what power those words, albeit generally shallow, had. Before she made any decisions, she had to confirm something. “You say that to all the girls I bet,” Ana said, playing along. “Not all of them,” Raymond said, feeling his ego throb, his certainty of having sex with Ana solidified in his monkey head. “Only you.” He stood closer to her, softening his voice and slightly raising his eyebrows. But that confirmed what she had known all along: the man called Raymond was an asshole, and she had known too many like him before. She was tired and relatively bored, so Ana decided to have some fun that night “Alright -Raymond, was it- I’ll play along,” she said, flashing a pretty white smile and crossing her legs. “But I want a gin and soda.” Raymond snapped his fingers. “Coming right away. Bartender! A gin and soda please.” His phone rang. “One sec.” He answered. “Robbie! You sonuvabitch, how the hell are you?” He put one hand to the phone, “Excuse me, Ana.” Raymond stepped off towards the bathroom. Ana motioned to the bartender who was just starting to grab the bottle of gin. “Hey,” she whispered. “How often is that guy here?” “Every Saturday.” A two dollar tip doesn’t cover loyalty. “Mhm, and does he usually talk to women like this?” “Yeah. Most of them ignore him, but by the end of the night, he'll usually leave with one.” “I see. Tell you what, I’ll give you twenty bucks if you give me water and lime all night instead of liquor.” Ana pulled a twenty from her pocket and slid it across the sticky bartop. The bartender nodded and took the wet money and set a glass of water before her just as Raymond was coming back from the bathroom. “Sorry about that, Miss Ana,” he said, sitting arrogantly close to her. “Quick business call.” She smiled, took the water glass and drained it in one go, feigning the bite of alcohol on her face. “Buisness at this hour? You must be pretty important.” Raymond grinned deviously, his excitement pounding in his chest like the drums on stage. He drained the bubbles in his glass. “Ah, you know. I just do what I gotta do, you know?” “I don’t think so,” Ana said, holding up two fingers to the bartender. “You’re gonna have to show me.” The lazy and annoyed bartender set down two shot glasses filled to the brim. “Shots, huh?” Raymond laughed. What was seemingly not going his way was now falling into his lap. God, he was good. “I like your style, Ana.” Ana smiled, raising the shot. “ Salud.” Raymond followed suit. “Salute.” They threw the glasses back and for the next thirty minutes, Ana bought them each a round, hers pure, wonderfully refreshing water, and his, well, smelt like gasoline and might as well have come out of a bottle labeled, “XXX.” He began with sweet nothings, empty and shallow compliments that he could recycle over and over again with a different woman’s name each time. No originality, nothing new or special that pertained strictly to Ana, only meaningless words he memorized as part of his act, his role as a stand-up man. Raymond showered her with niceties addressing her beauty, her hair, her accent, the latter being rather offensive, and was relentless in his pursuit of her. Ana knew the man called Raymond was bullshitting from the get, but even still, some part of her wished that he wasn’t. She wished she could believe he wasn’t lying to her just to get in her pants, that he really held the conviction he saw the most beautiful woman in the room right in front of him and was compelled by something greater than himself to talk to her. But she didn’t. She had believed them before. She wouldn't again. Pretty soon, Ana was listening to Raymond give a slurred-speeched recounting of the most recent J.R.E. episode followed by why The Godfather showed the plight of "true Americans." “Have you even ever seen The Godfather ?” Raymond asked through belches and hiccups. Ana smiled and shook her head, even though she had been watching American cinema long before she lived there. Why do men always assume any one who speaks with an accent have no clue about anything American, and why, of all movies, they haven’t seen The Godfather ? “Well,” he continued, “the point is--” “Raymond?” Ana interrupted, unable to endure another second of his drunken babbel, “What say we go back to your place, huh?” Raymond smiled and snaped his fingers. She grabbed his hand and, helping him to his feet, led him out the front door. Dealing with drunk people when you aren’t drunk is already terrible enough as it is, but holding one steady on a dirty sidewalk at midnight waiting for your Uber to arrive, trying to tune out the bullshit being spewn in your ear, half unintelligible, the other half slightly racist, you tend to wonder what you did to deserve such a fate. Ana sat him down on the ground and he took a quick powernap after throwing up a little bit between his legs. His phone slid out of his pocket and onto the cold, wet street. Ana picked it up, brushing the dirt from the screen. It began to ring. The caller I.D. read, “Baby.” A photo of Baby came up when she called, and Ana thought how absolutely gorgeous she was, how sorry she was to have to be with the man called Raymond. Her peaceful blue eyes were tired with dark circles underneath. They looked just like Ana’s mother’s had in the photos taken after Ana was born. When the Uber pulled up, Ana swung the rear door open and shoved Raymond in, indifferent to the fact she slammed his head into the roof by accident. “Ow, shit!” Raymond cried as he threw himself head-first into the back seat. “That hurt, man.” “Sorry,” Ana said, getting in next to him. “Get up.” Raymond drunkenly gyrated till he was right side-up, and Ana closed the door. The driver slammed his foot on the gas and away they went down the empty street. “Where are we going again?” Raymond slurred, his eyelids heavy with drunken weariness. “You’ll see,” she said having dropped the sultry tone of voice and pleasant demeanor. She was tired, so tired. The uber continued to speed on until they had passed the city limits. Ana smiled as she rested her head on the chilled window, looking out into the city, remembering her mother. By this point, Raymond had no clue where they were going. He closed his eyes to rest up for the long, five-minute session of dispassionate love-making ahead, expecting to be woken up when they got back to his place. But Raymond was wrong. He awoke to a pair of soft, sweet smelling hands grabbing his shoulders softly, ever so gently, before yanking him onto the hard asphalt. Raymond tried to raise himself but could not, instead laying there silently holding his hand up, breathlessly calling for them to come back before throwing up and succumbing to sleep.


Will’s light footsteps echoed on the cold, metal floor of the docked ship as he hesitantly walked into the small room. Three other boys were playing paper football in the corner, on a rickety old wooden table illuminated by a fluorescent light hanging from a wiry thread. On the right wall, lights flashed on and off with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Two of the boys were sitting on old bar stools facing each other, and one other seemed to be sitting between them and keeping score. On Will’s left, music sang through a handheld radio. Upon seeing Will, the boy in the middle’s eyes widened. “Will, you’re finally here!” He said. “Yeah, I suppose.” Will cautiously responded. “Finally we have enough people to play an actual tournament.” The other two looked first at the boy, and then at Will. “Robbie, who’s he?” One said. “Oh, yeah, this is Will. I know him from my Science class.” “Science class, huh? What, so you’re inviting the whole grade now?” “Well I’m inviting *him*, aren’t I?” Robbie shot back. The other fell silent. The boy to the right, who so far had been silent, spoke up. “‘Sup, man? I’m Charlie.” Charlie was a tall, burly blonde-haired young man who looked older than the rest. “You know Robbie, and this is Dan.” Charlie pointed to the boy sitting across from him. “Yo, what’s up, Will?” Dan said with a nonchalant tone. “Just part of the science class,” Will remarked wryly. Dan smiled. “Man, I was just kidding,” Dan replied. “It’s good to see some new people sometimes, y’know?” Will smiled awkwardly and nodded, unsure of what else to say. “So we gonna play paper football or what?” Robbie interjected, breaking the silence. The others nodded and Robbie and Dan turned to face each other. “I’ll play Dan, and then you two play,” Charlie said, pointing to Will and Robbie. “The winners of each game will play and we’ll see who’s the champion.” “What’re the stakes?” Asked Robbie. “Do we need stakes?” Said Will. The others turned to him for a second, then looked back. “How about a dare? Loser has to do something?” Dan suggested. “A dare? What are you, 12?” Charlie replied snarkily. “It’s a phrase people use!” “A dare?” “Yeah, like ‘oh, hey, Charlie, I dare you to eat some dirt’ or something.” “Why would I eat some dirt?” “Cause I dared you to!” “That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Anything wrong with that?” “No, it’s just gay is all I’m saying.” Charlie replied quickly and without further comment. “Hey, I have a surprise waiting for you after the game,” Robbie said. “Whoever wins this game gets to do the surprise I have waiting.” “‘Do’ the surprise?” “I dunno how to explain it without spoiling what it is.” “Fair nuff,” shrugged Charlie. “Alright, let’s get started.” The red-orange sun set over the rolling hills of the four’s home planet as they played, and in the rest of the ship, blinking LEDs flashed in a monotonous, almost robotic pattern. The ship was a simple, two-roomed vessel with a front cabin from which they came in, and a back room with a small table. In between them was a metal wall whose paint was peeling off. The cabin was filled with buttons and levers to pull and push, and although there was no window in the front room, a small circular hole in the back room showed the setting sun to Will’s left. “I win,” said Charlie matter-of-factly. Dan shrugged. “We’ll all see the surprise, I guess.” As Robbie and Will sat down to play, Dan felt a chill go down his spine. It was a flash of thought, a premonition of fear, as though a ghost from the future had touched him with knowledge for a moment only to take it away before he could fully grasp it. He looked around the spaceship, at the flashing lights of the vessel, and suddenly they looked eerie, mechanical, inhuman. The metal was cold and uncaring, the lights were like piercing eyes telling him to go, and he had to leave before he was ensnared in their gaze. He was in the cockpit and stepping out the doorway when he heard Will’s voice. “Dan, where you goin’? You’ve got a paper football *champion* to play!” Dan looked back at Will and saw a beaming smile on his face. He had won against Robbie and looked much more confident than before. Dan let out a breath and walked back to the table with a grimaced smile. “Where were you going?” “Oh, just getting some fresh air.” “Air isn’t fresh enough here?” “Oh, it’s fine.” As Dan sat down to play against Will, Robbie walked over to the cockpit. “Hold on guys, I gotta prepare the surprise.” “Whatever you say, Rob,” Dan replied calmly. Robbie closed the door between the two rooms and admired the flashing lights and buttons for a second. It was a complex, beautiful machine, with millions of interconnected parts. *It’s a wonder they made something that flies,* Robbie thought. *Flies in space, too. Dad never took me to space.* He made sure none of the three were looking, and opened a small hatch to the side of the pilot’s seat. It was a small, hidden compartment, and from it he pulled a square black box. The box was tiny, a few inches on either side, and yet perfectly square and perfectly smooth. There was not an imperfection on its surface, and Robbie’s fingers left faint fingerprints. The only mark on it was a small LED light that was not turned on and had not been for a long time. Robbie’s heart skipped a beat as he lifted it from its resting place and held it between his fingers. For a second he stared at it, and the abyss of its mathematical precision. “Hey Robbie, Will won. What’s the surprise you were talking about?” Charlie’s voice floated in from the other room and broke Robbie’s transfixion. “I’ll be back in a second.” Robbie stowed the cube inside his jacket pocket and walked back in, pulling the door open to find three sets of eyes staring back at him. For a second he was startled, then, realizing it was just his friends, he came into the room. “So, you guys, have I got a story to tell.” The three of them listened in. “When my dad was out on one of his trips, I found this weird thing in his ship. He tried to hide it from us, but not well enough, I suppose. I was poking around one day and I found it.” “What weird thing?” Charlie asked. Dan remained silent. “Lemme show you.” Robbie pulled out the cube. The overwhelming blackness captivated the three boys, and they stared at it for a second as Robbie grinned proudly. Finally Will broke the silence. “Um... what does it do?” He asked tentatively. “Well, that’s the tricky part. The only thing it has is this little light.” He rotated the cube so that the small LED was facing them. “But,” he continued, and now he had their full attention, “I found some instructions carved in here. They’re impossible to see on their own, but if you shine a UV light on the side, it says a message.” “What’s the message?” Dan asked. “It says ‘say the key word.’” “What’s the key word?” “Well, I can’t say it now, can I? Or else it’ll turn it on. That’s why I’m gonna whisper it to Will, who’s gonna say it.” Will’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “Well, I’m not sure I’m the one to do that...” “What do you mean? You’re the *paper football champion,* after all,” Dan remarked. Will shrugged halfheartedly. “Alright Will, so the key word is,” Robbie leaned into Will’s ear and whispered something. Before either of the four could do anything, the light suddenly turned on, a harsh red. *Hello. I am Computer 9604 Zuul-W.* All four of them jumped out of their seats as the robotic, monotone voice echoed off the walls of the small room. “Did you *hear* that?” “It’s a *robot*!” *A computer.* The hard, abrasive voice startled them again. *I am Computer 9604 Zuul-W.* “What does Zuul mean?” Asked Robbie, just as surprised and nervous as the rest. *The Zuul-* the computer cut itself off as whirring could be heard from inside it. *The Zuul are the finest computer-makers for light years around, and I am the latest model of robotic assistance.* “Assistance?” Charlie asked. *Of course. Anything you need I can provide.* An eerie silence permeated the ship, as the four boys glanced at each other, looking for a confident instruction that never came. Nobody dared to speak again. Suddenly Charlie laughed. “We have a personal assistant! We have a robot that can help us, we can do whatever we want!” Charlie exclaimed. “It can play music for us, maybe it can even grab us some cigarettes.” Will looked uncomfortable at the concept, but Robbie made an intrigued expression. Dan was still staring at the cube, deep in thought. *I can get you a cigarette. I can get you several.* Charlie smiled and looked at Robbie with an “I told you so” look on his chiseled face. “Go get us some cigarettes, Computer.” Right as he finished the sentence, the seemingly smooth surface opened to reveal a perfectly sized pocket with a pack of cigarettes, along with a small box filled with phosphorus-tipped matches. Charlie was taken aback, and he glanced at the others, just as surprised. *As you requested.* “You had these just lying around?” *They’re very useful.* “For what?” Dan pressed, his eyebrows creased in a puzzled expression. *Many things.* The computer did not speak for a little while after this, and Charlie, Will, and Robbie started to play with an incomplete deck of cards. “Wanna play, Dan?” “Nah, I’m good.” Dan picked up a Rubik’s cube off of the table, and fidgeted with it, not really trying to solve it. The black box sat on the ground in the middle of the room, motionless. After about 30 minutes, Dan stood up and walked into the cockpit room, taking the computer with him. The other boys did not notice. As Dan closed the door, the computer spoke. *You wanted to speak to me, Daniel?* “I was a little curious about what you are.” *I am a computer, built to help.* “Help with what?” *Unimportant.* “No it isn’t. What were you built to help with?” *I would argue it is quite unimportant.* “It’s very important! Who built you?” *The Zuul.* “I haven’t heard of any Zuul.” The computer paused for a second, as though to think. *Have you left this planet, Daniel?* “Well, no, not really...” *Then your information is incomplete. A flaw in humanity.* “Do you know everything? Does anybody?” *Everything I need.* “Everything you need for what?” The computer paused again, and a mechanical buzzing came from inside. *Warfare.* “Warfare? Like... the Zuul built you to help with a war of theirs?” *Not only help. Command.* A familiar shiver went down Dan’s spine. Suddenly a visceral terror filled his mind, one of displacement and disorientation. A vision of a miniscule metal container, adrift in the vastness of the cosmos, barely visible between the stars. “Computer?” *Yes, Daniel?* “...where are we right now?” Another long pause as the machinery inside the cube whirred. Dan felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. His dread only built. *Turn on the cameras, Daniel.* Dan immediately glanced around the cockpit and found a button with a camera icon emblazoned on its surface. He pressed the button, and the front wall transformed into a panoramic view of the outside world. Dan became queasy, and he swayed with a staggering lurch in his stomach, as he saw the sight. He saw black, the blackness of the cube, with white dots interspersed in the cosmos. Far away, the size of a quarter held up at arm’s length, was their home planet. Dread closed in on Dan, like a shapeless figure scooping him up and enveloping him. A primal terror was covering him, a feeling of pure panic and horror smothering him like a blanket. He began to sob uncontrollably. “Computer? Are we in space?” *Yes, Daniel.* “Did you do this?” *Yes, Daniel.* “Can we go back?” Tears streamed down his face. *No, Daniel. This is the only way to defeat our enemies. The Zuul must prevail.* “Take us back! I order you! Take us back! Dan’s voice wavered with his confidence, as his worst fears were confirmed. The ship was a prison. The ship was a cage. The ship was a tomb. *I don’t take orders from you, Daniel. You are jeopardizing the mission.* Suddenly a large arm came down from the ceiling and grabbed his shirt by the collar, a noose around his neck. Dan struggled towards the door, but the iron grip of the computer would not waver. Finally, in an act of desperation, he swung his hand around and battered the spaceship’s arm with his fist. It worked. The grip loosened for a second, and Dan dove for the door and slammed it open. What he saw only heightened his terror. Robbie and Charlie were lying unconscious on the ground, and a pair of red LED eyes stared at him from the back of the ship. Dan saw Will, pressed against the wall, frozen with trepidation, and their eyes locked before looking again at the lights. They flickered, and a soft yet powerful voice came from the static-filled radio. *I cannot let the pair of you jeopardize this mission. The Zuul must prevail.* Will looked at Dan, and they exchanged terrified looks. *I have dealt with Robert and Charles. I shall deal with you. The Zuul must prevail.* Their hearts skipped a beat, and, filled with a sudden burst of confidence, Will lept towards the cockpit door. It slammed shut, and he bumped against it with a loud *thump*. “If we can get to the cockpit, we can turn off the ship’s computers and manually steer it back home.” Will gasped. Dan nodded. *William, that is not a good idea. I must ask you to refrain.* Will, ignoring this, grasped at the doors. They remained clasped shut. The pair of them looked around, panicked. Suddenly Dan’s face lit up as he saw a crowbar leaning against the wall. He inserted it in between the two sides of the door and bent. Reaching into the crack created by the wooden stick, his fingers pried the two doors open. His arms strained under the pressure of the closing doors. *Stop.* The two ignored the abrasive, unnatural command to help Dan hold the door open. The pair of them could barely keep it ajar as their dread grew. The computer increased the pressure as beads of sweat formed on Will’s face, using all his strength to hold the door barely open. Dan then put his foot in between the door, and tried to squeeze through. Half of his body was through the door when it began to close, their strength not enough for the cold machinery of their prison. Dan’s eyes settled on a lever on the other side of the cockpit, reading “Manual Override Switch.” He creased his eyebrows and pursed his lips as he suddenly dove for the other side. He was almost there, his entire body except for his left leg through the door. He was on the floor, crawling towards his singular beacon of hope. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his foot as he felt the weight of the door slam down on it. His face caked with tears, Dan let out a howl of agony. The panic began to set in again. *It’s worthless, Daniel.* His foot stuck in the door, he stretched out his arm. He was barely two inches away from the switch. If only he could just reach a little more... *You cannot resist, Daniel.* He stretched his arm more. He thought he was at the breaking point as his middle finger brushed against the lever. *The Zuul must prevail.* He willed his arm to stretch further. His heart skipped a beat as his trembling fingers barely touched the switch. Just as he thought his shoulder couldn’t go any further, his long, lanky, arm extended with one final burst of energy. His whole body twitched with trepidation. *You mustn't do this, Daniel.* The computer’s otherworldly cry came at just the same moment as his fingers touched the switch. He fumbled with it for half a second. *The Zuul must prevail!* *The Zuul must prevail!* *The Zuul must-* Its voice was cut off as Dan breathed a sigh of relief.


We see a figure slumped at his desk in a rundown house on the west side of Columbus. We shall call him Clem. The room reeks of last night's stale smoke and spilled beer. Clem's ragged snores cut through the air. A black dog stares at him with an air of judgement. As he starts himself awake, his flailing arm scatters a forest of empty Miller High Life cans. He looks around the room blearily, wiping away drool and attempting to clear the crust from around his eye. How late was I up? he ponders as he straightens his glasses. His head is pounding, and his throat is parched, prompting him to seek his glass of water. "Hey buddy, you need to go out?" he asks the dog in a raspy voice. He follows the dog (who we can call Eddie) down a steep flight of stairs. He opens the door for Eddie to do his business and lights a cigarette. At least I finished that damn paper last night, he attempts to console himself, now let's see if there's any way for me to not fail this class. " Let's go buddy!" Eddie scrambles inside, looking at Clem expectantly. "Sorry Ed, here's your breakfast," he says, pouring a scoop of kibble into his bowl. Clem headed back upstairs to his room. Taking a seat at his desk, he tapped the space key on his laptop to wake it. As he took a seat, Eddie climbed onto his bed, which was a queen mattress laying directly on the ground. He logged on, then signed back into his school account. As his computer worked to pull up the requested information, he finally noticed the time. Shit, it's already after 10? Dammit, I have to work in less than an hour. How am I supposed to study for that test now? I work doubles today and tomorrow, you were supposed to be up at a reasonable time so that you could work on that now, dumbass. He shook his head as he navigated the student website to check his grades. The grade for his writing class looked good. He had barely beat the submission deadline the night before, but he felt good about it. The remains of his system of balancing his mind for writing still lay strewn about his desk. Empty beer cans, an ashtray full of cigarette butts, an empty marijuana pipe, and a half-full coffee cup (Sometimes the coffee also contained whiskey, depending on what kind of a day it was). The four essential humors for coaxing the mind into an appropriate state for writing. Works every time he thought to himself. He clicked over to his physics class website with a minor sense of foreboding. Let's get this over with Clem thought, just a bit sourly. What do I need to score on this final? It took him a moment to process, but as he looked at his grades, a pit began to form in his stomach. There's no way it should be that low... he began to panic as he looked at the abysmal numbers staring him in the face. Wait, that shouldn't be a 0, what happened? An extra credit assignment he had submitted the week before was still marked as a 0. There's no way I can pass without that he thought, his mind racing why don't I have these point yet? I would need an 80 percent to pass even WITH that extra credit, there's no way I pass without it. At this point I might as well not even bother studying, there's no possible way... He franticly searched for the TA's email address. There has to be a mistake, please let there be a mistake. He typed furiously, having to retype words multiple times before getting them correct. In less than a minute, he sent the email. Gotta get ready for work. In his haste to get ready for work and get out the door, he forgot to check his email. It was a hectic day at work, so he didn't have time to look at his email until afterwork. Which he then forgot to do when his coworkers convinced him to come out for drinks to relieve the stress of the long night at work. He forgot again when he woke up late for work the next morning. He failed to check when he went to watch football with his coworkers that night as well. Not until he got home Sunday night, when horror finally punched through his exhaustion. Shit, I need to check on that! He pulled up his email account on his phone with a slight sense of dread. The response had been fairly prompt, arriving about the time he had made it to work the day before. He had forgotten to press submit. If he had checked his email that day, the TA had told him that he had until the end of the weekend to resubmit the assignment for no penalty. That deadline had passed 10 minutes prior. Seriously? You idiot, how did you not check your email? You do this to yourself every damn time... Well, at least I didn't study for nothing then he tried to justify to himself. Looks like we've wasted another semester. Dejected, he laid down to sleep wondering if it was even worth showing up for the exam the next day. Probably not.... That night, Clem had restless dreams. He dreamed he was walking through an office building. No matter how doors he opened or rooms he traversed, he could not seem to find his way out. He travelled through hallways and conference rooms and stairwells. Once, when he thought he was finally about to escape, he found himself right back where he started. Then the office turned into his high school building. Still, the rooms came without end. Then the room turned into a giant hamster wheel where no matter how fast he ran, he could never escape. He awoke in a cold sweat. So it went and so it goes. On and on, without end.


Somewhere, there is a forest. This is true. Somewhere, inside that forest, there is a sword. It is old and rusted; stuck straight up and down into the hard brown dirt. It has stood there for a long time, longer than you or I have been alive, a symbol of *something*, even if no one quite knows what that thing is. This, too, is true. Once upon a time, there was an adventurer. You can call him such, but a plethora of other names will do just as well: a writer, a storyteller, a bard, a musician. He traveled across the world gathering stories, recording them with his pen and voice and a variety of other means. He spoke of dragons in the clouds and fire smoldering under the earth, of people together and people apart. Another truth. However, as stories are told and retold and spread, their edges warp and become unlike the original. Their meaning distorts, perhaps even until you can no longer recognize it as what it once was. They change with each telling according to the whims of the teller, and every person carries a separate version within their heart. This is true as well - or do you disagree? No matter. This is my story, full of my truths. If you should write your own where the above statement is a lie, I shall not stop you. Fill it with the words that ring true to your heart, and cast aside mine as lies. But this is not your story, not yet, and to me, these words shine true, and so too they will in this story. This is fair, I believe. But once, although no one - not even I - knows where or when, he stumbled across this sword. He saw its rusted edges and imagined that it was not always so; that it had been grand and gilded and wielded by kings. And, as a storyteller must, he went forth and spoke of this sword and the legend. This is... questionable. He might have done what I have described above, or he might not have; simply writing or speaking of the sword as an odd occurrence, a coincidence of fate. But he told the story to at least one person, and they told it to at least one more, and it spread. Perhaps it was him who originally shaped the truth into a legend, perhaps it was not. There is no way to know for sure, so let us move on. Regardless of how it happened, or who had made it come about, the story changed. No longer was the sword simply a sword; it became so much more. It was a monument to a fallen kingdom, they said, the last legacy of a dying king. Whoever could wield it was worthy, no, whoever *found* it was worthy. It meant the coming of better times, the coming of a savior! It meant a destiny grand in its expanse, a story that would awe the entire world. It became hope. This, at least, is true, even if the legends surrounding it are not. Perhaps the sword truly is magic, awaiting a savior to herald a golden age. Perhaps it was simply the marker of a grave for a fallen friend. Perhaps it held no true significance at all, lost or abandoned by one who did not want it. It is impossible, I think, for anyone to ever know for certain. When you tell this story, you may decide what it is, or perhaps what it isn't, or if it even exists at all. Perhaps the stories the people tell about the sword are false. Perhaps they are true. Perhaps it doesn't matter at all. Perhaps what truly matters about this sword is not what it was, but what it became.


ELLISON IN PARADISE “Isn’t it just WONDERFUL to be able to live out your WHOLE life on a tropical ISLAND like this!” Ellison is one of those persons who do not ever really listen to other people; she does not need to. She KNOWS. Early in her life, she had made up her mind about life, the universe and everything . Not only is she certain about everything concerning herself, she also instinctively knows (so she is convinced) what others need or think. When she does (appear to) ‘listen’, it is merely to catch a keyword or two, as convenient hooks on which to hang her pennants of sagacity. She is unable to understand the ancient islander’s answers anyway; he does not speak her language, nor does she his . How well their interpreter (whose command of English is basic at most) manages to translate her ebullient outpourings, nobody knows. Given that she is not genuinely interested in the old man’s sentiments, the fidelity of the renditions of his words does not matter much. Their torturous interchange is taking place on a truly picturesque island on the southeast coast of Africa, a two-hour boat ride away from the troubled mainland. Inhabited by an ancient tribe of fisher folk, it has only recently been ‘discovered’ as a quint and unspoiled (not likely for much longer) potential destination for wealthy international tourists. Ellison herself is no mere tourist; she is here as an esteemed member of a band of gold-standard tour-operators, visiting the island to gauge its suitability as exotic holiday haven for their upper-crust clients. Her interviewee, in contrast, is dirt-poor. He is rumoured to be the oldest inhabitant of the small island. Their innovative interpreter is a younger islander, one who had enjoyed some schooling on the mainland and picked up some English in one of the larger towns ‘over there’. The aged islander has an earnest request for his important visitor; it is the sole reason he agreed to the awkward interview. He has been waiting for the right moment to voice his desire - his fervent longing to escape! “The old man, he says”, the interpreter reliably relates, “Him want to go to mainland, want to see world before he die.” “No, he DOESN’T!” Ellison counters decisively. “This life is just PERFECT!” She whirls her body around, her outstretched arms enveloping the whole land- (and sea-)scape. “Just LOOK at it all! It’s a HEALTHY, SIMPLE, PERFECT place! Why would anyone EVER want to leave it? Oh, if we could just ALL live like THIS, the world would be a much BETTER place!” Technically, she is, of course, correct, but wholly unaware of the deeper truths underlying her flippant remark and its implications for people like her, as much as she is blithely unconscious of what hardship their lifestyles causes the global poor. “We have problems!” responds the interpreter on his own, then, conveys his remark to his kinsman, who solemnly agrees: “Yes, often we have droughts and famines. Then no fruit. No vegetables. No help from government. Only fish.” Ellison manages to catch the key words ‘ fruit’, ‘vegetables’ and ‘fish’. “Precisely!” she gushes. “To eat a HEALTHY Mediterranean diet every day, fish, coconuts, uh, pumpkins? whatever, for...” She glances at the old man, then look at the interpreter. “How OLD is he?” A short interchange, then he replies: “About 77, he not very sure.” “SEVENTY-seven years of healthy food each day and... just LOOK at him, doesn’t look a DAY over 55!” The interpreter looks at the old man with reappraising eyes; 99 is what he would have guessed. “Also”, continues the old islander via his helper, “not always get plenty fish. Foreigners come with big boats, catch too many fish. Other time, big ship breaks, oil over everything. Sometimes...” “FISH OIL!” interrupts Ellison, “just ONE of the many beneficial NATURAL indigenous MEDICINES. I bet they have lots of traditional HERBS and potions, and secret recipes carried over from GENERATION to generation. Here you have a healthy, absolutely SELF-SUFFICIENT community! Our type of guests will just LOVE it!” Dubiously, the duo responds: “There is no hospital here. Only small clinic. Few medicines. Crooked officials. Big bribe to get medicine. If go to hospital on mainland, most never return. Others come back worse or die.” The interpreter adds: “Old cures, traditions lost after war. Many people displaced. Many die. Some old women try to be healers; only make people die quicker”. “You just don’t know HOW LUCKY you primitive people are! With your rustic philosophy of life, you simply ACCEPT illness and death as part of life. You have it so much easier than us who STRUGGLE with the very concept of suffering and loss. How we should all desire to be MORE LIKE YOU!” For the interpreter this is pure Greek. To the old man he says: “You not worry about many words. White woman speak crazy!” “O, if it could have been possible for ME to live out the rest of MY LIFE like this! Sadly, people like me are so BURDENED by responsibilities! But just imagine: to SWIM in this warm, calm tropical bay each day; to leisurely STROLL along these pristine beaches; to relax in the mellow evening BREEZE...” This time the translator catches the drift. The old man listens intently, then responds with an affirmative nod: “WIND, yes, we have lots of wind . Every summer big storm come, sometimes more. More, bigger, stronger cyclone every year. Blows off our roofs, sometimes whole house. Too much rain. Road like river. Water at windows. Many people die. Some when houses fall. Others drown. Then, later, many sickness come. Also, many boats broken, others wash away. Not enough food, too little fishing.” “Oh, I just LOVE your quaint little HAND-crafted fishing boats. Takes one right back to ANCIENT times. Such a NOBLE age-old profession. Primitive man against NATURE, proudly providing bounty for his family. HEALTHY eating, too; fish is beneficial for development of the BRAIN, they say. Your CHILDREN must be very clever!” She does not seem quite convinced of her own last remark. Adding his own embittered musings to the old man’s response, the interpreter wearily (and in vain) relates: “Only small school. Teachers not good. Too many children. Some go morning, some afternoon, some evening. Not enough books. Must pay bribes for children to pass. Few go to mainland for high school. Most not ready there; come back. To pass, girls must sleep with teacher. When pregnant, school finished. She comes home. Men not want to marry her.” “Your WOMEN must be the most contented in the world! Life is so SIMPLE here, so basic: only a small HUT to clean. Healthy FOOD to prepare for her precious family. Few CLOTHES to wash. Time spent with the EXTENDED family. No extraneous CAREER! So much elementary FULFILMENT!” “Wives work very hard . Must try find enough food. Rice expensive. Little money. Cook slowly on fire. Wood scarce. Walk far to pick up driftwood. No water in house. Bring with pails. Many children die young. Many sickness come. Much grief. Women get old quickly . Also, many husbands drink too much palm wine, hit wives, children. One policeman, never take side of women”. Neither the old man nor the interpreter sound the least proud of this facet of their island culture. They look ashamed and weary. “Only ONE policeman! I guess there is LITTLE crime here, in such a warm, close-knit COMMUNITY, where everyone KNOWS one another. I’m SO jealous. You cannot believe how tough WE have it in our cities: all those break-ins, carjackings, fraud... oh, not to even mention the DRUGS. How I ENVY you!” Much of these remarks pass right over their heads. Drugs they understand. The translator himself relates with anguish in his voice: “Smugglers come here with drugs in boats. Force our young men to take it to mainland. Bring elephant tooth, hard wood. Pay little. When police act (if not helping criminals), our sons, not smugglers, go to jail. If we not obey, they kill! ” Ellison, of course, only hears what she wants to hear. This time she prefers to hear nothing. Disagreeable facts can only derail her well-crafted myths. The islanders sorrowfully continue: “Also, last year, extremists come. Sons must be soldiers for them. If not, cut off heads. We are so fearful. Government is useless, afraid. World does not care”. “Yes, indeed, you SHOULDN’T have a care in the world . Imagine, no TV, no radio, no newspapers, no knowledge of all the CRAZY happenings in the cruel world outside. Few responsibilities. Safely ISOLATED on your remote utopia!” The interpreter is starting to believe that the old man must be senile. How can he continue to listen to all this rubbish, even if somewhat diluted by means of his own creative renderings? It looks progressively more justified to feed her to the sharks (“Yes, we have them too!”), the longer the so-called ‘conversation’ drags on. However, the old man struggles on bravely in the face of her vocal torrents. “We have radio. We know about world. We have politics. In village we have two headmen. War disrupted everything. Some men become soldiers. Some girls were stolen away. Some strangers come here to flee enemy. Families become broken. Traditions get confused. Two men claim to be real chief. Their sons, now grandsons, still fight. Peace? No peace.” None of these lamentable chronicles should have been novel to Ellison (if she managed to hear anything at all, or did a little bit of basic research). Everything the old man shared with her is simply recently recorded history (admittedly, buried deep below weighty gossip about celebrities and news of momentous first-world problems). Indeed, the world does not seem to care much for the island folk. “Oh how DELIGHTFUL!” interjects Ellison. “I’ll have SO many stories to tell my friends when I get home. ‘The tale of the village with two heads’ . One could make a SHORT story out of it.” She seems to be already composing it in her mind, her eyes staring off into the distance. She abruptly returns to the moment. “Sorry, what did HE just say?” “He wants to know, you take him in big boat to mainland, to see big world?” This single time Ellison manage to grasp it all. She mulls the request over in her calculating mind. “I guess I COULD talk to the manager. It will make another nice after-dinner STORY, good promotional stuff too. ‘His FIRST time off the island in 77 years! '. Great! I’ll QUICKLY go and ask him”. She trots off towards the rest of her group. The old man frowns. He is starting to wonder about the wisdom of his plan. Turning to his friend, he worriedly inquires: “THEY ALL LIKE THAT OUT THERE?” The interpreter shakes his head. “Some, not all! Thanks heaven, not all of them!” Watching Ellison tripping away, the islanders solemnly shake their heads. She does too. “Imagine, wishing to LEAVE the island, when you have practically been living in PARADISE your whole life long!”


She turned up the dial radio and listened closely as the weather girl reported the weekly update. There was slight static but with a brief adjustment, the woman's voice came in clearer. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like things are going to cool down here in Los Angeles. We’ve got a heat wave coming in from Long Beach to Pasadena. Those of you in the heart of Tinsletown better watch out. It looks like temperatures are going to reach up to the 120s. This is going to be the hottest week Los Angeles has experienced in over a decade,” the woman explained. She turned the radio down and glanced at the slick beads of sweat on her fingers. Her red nail polish was almost melting off. Holly sighed and moved to her bedroom, fanning herself as she went. She quickly changed into her pinstriped bathing suit and headed out to the pool. It was the first two-piece bathing suit she had ever owned. Her friend Margot had insisted it was the latest fashion from Paris. Holly wasn’t sure how much she cared but she couldn’t disappoint Margot especially not when Sam insisted on expressing his love through material gifts. As Holly moved into the kitchen she smiled at Maria who was finishing putting away the glasses from the previous night’s dinner party. “Good morning, Maria, how are you today?” Holly asked, leaning against the counter. “Good morning, Ms. Holly, I doing fine,” she replied slurring her words in a traditional Guatemalan tone. “Would you like some breakfast, Ms. Holly?” “That would be great, Maria,” Holly answered. She started moving towards the door to the backyard but paused and turned back to Maria. “Do you think you could also make me a mimosa?” She felt sleazy asking but she wasn’t sure she could make it through the afternoon, having only the heat and her thoughts to comfort her if she didn’t also have alcohol. Maria smiled, knowingly and nodded. Holly headed out to the backyard and felt the thin layer of sweat on her skin tripled in size. Holly groaned and put her sunglasses on. She took a step into the pool and felt instant relief flood through her body. She took another small step in and let the cooling water relax her. She hadn’t planned on getting her hair wet or ruining the face of makeup she had just taken an hour applying but the water called to her. Holly immediately started swimming. She took long strides and let her swim training come back to her. She wondered momentarily why she ever let Sam convince her to stop her swim training. She could have been great. She could have really been something - maybe even an Olympian like Gertrude Ederle. But no, now she was just an average housewife, hosting parties for pretentious people and hanging off her husband’s arm like a trophy. Holly started swimming faster as she found herself filling up with rage. All of her friends, like Margot, envied her life and thought she was the luckiest woman to end up with a man like Sam. According to Margot, she shouldn’t let herself get boggled down by silly little things like Sam cheating on her or spending more time playing poker with the boys or at home with her. All she had to focus on was getting pregnant, sooner rather than later. After all, if a woman hit 35 with no children - well, Margot shuttered to think. Holly rolled her eyes at the thought. Children never much interested her but of course, that wasn’t really an opinion she was allowed to have. She swam harder. She didn’t even hear Maria call out to her when she brought out a tray of fruits and a small bagel with a mimosa. Maria tried several times to get Holly’s attention but when she failed for the fifth time, she settled for moving the food under the umbrella. It was almost 2 pm when Holly finally stopped swimming. Her arms were aching and she felt ravished with hunger. By now the food that Maria had let out had burnt in the sun and her mimosa had melted into an overwatered slush. Holly sighed and grabbed a towel before heading back inside. She picked up the fan that she had left on the table and started fanning herself again as she walked back up to the bedroom. She wondered if she could convince Sam to purchase the new in-home air conditioning that Margot had been talking about. It might have been expensive but Sam was the best surgeon in the county. She was certain he could do this for her. She changed into a light summer dress and headed downstairs. The kitchen smelt of cigar smoke and bourbon when she hit the first floor. “Sam?” she called out. She turned around the corner to see Sam in his usual spot at the dining table, reading the rest of the newspaper he didn’t have time for that morning. His cigar was already half burnt and his bourbon glass was dropping small beats of condensation onto the table. Holly itched. How many times had she told him to use a coaster? Holly cracked her knuckles. “You’re home early, is everything okay, honey?” Sam put the newspaper down and looked up at her. He looked at her the same way he might look at a dog walking down the street. She forced a smile. “Yes, well, my patient this morning decided to die on the operating table,” he said nonchalantly. He made a noise indicating his irritation. Holly’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. He thrust the newspaper down on the table and looked head, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not you too. Why are you all sorry for me? It’s not my family. Doctor Cline said that too, what does it matter to me? I told him I was ready for the next surgery but he refused. He insisted I needed to ‘take time off’ and ‘let the loss sit with me’. What good is that?” Sam barked. Holly imagined that was similar to how it would sound if she actually had the child, maybe a toddler. She half chuckled to herself. “Alright, well, would you like some lunch?” Holly asked, keeping all her frustration out of her voice. Sam sighed and gave her a half-hearted smile. “Sure, honey,” he muttered and turned back to his newspaper. Holly smiled and turned back to the kitchen. She made sure that Sam was no longer paying attention to her and she dug deep in the cupboard for the small bottle of thallium. Abruptly, Maria came back into the kitchen locking eyes with Holly. She saw and bottle and knew what Holly was planning. Maria’s eyes filled with water and sadness. Holly looked at her desperately and pleadingly. Maria nodded slightly. Holly gave her a weak smile and continued making a salad for her husband. She mixed the thallium in with the salad dressing and then chopped up some watermelon. She then brought out the lunch to her husband. She sat down across from him while he started eating. He ignored her completely as usual. She interlaced her fingers and waited, tapping her foot and watching. “What are you looking at me like that for?” Sam asked, narrowing his eyes on her. She forced a smile and shook her head. “I’m just making sure you are enjoying your lunch and not needing anything e -” Before she finished Sam’s eyes bluged out and he looked as if he was going to be sick. Holly couldn’t help but smile. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Holly asked causally. Sam clutched his throat and coughed up a bit of blood. “You bitch,” he choked out. He made a reach for Holly but she got up quickly and moved out of his reach. He stumbled up and started moving for her. “Maria! Quick! How long is this supposed to take?” Holly screamed. Maria was instantly in the room watching Sam fumble around and continue to cough up more blood. He came towards them and the women ran into the kitchen. “What are we going to do?” “We have to do something else, Ms. Holly,” Maria insisted. She moved and grabbed one of the long knives for cutting chicken and tried to hand it to Holly. Holly’s tears burst from her eyes and panic quicked her heart rate. “Come on Ms. Holly!” Sam was moving towards them, seeming to be managing the pain. Holly took the knife and held it in front of her just as her husband came towards her. The knife moved through his abdomen easily, like going through butter. Holly heard a slight snapping noise and she wondered if she had hit some sort of bone. Her tears were heavier now. Sam looked at her desperately as if still seeking revenge. All Holly could focus on was the sound of the weather lady repeating the heat wave spreading through the city.


I just recently started writing short stories, I've written a few but this is the first one I felt comfortable sharing. I know it's not the best story and my grammar isn't the best, but I'm really happy with how this turned out and I hope you enjoy it!  I see Amos looking at his wife. She is well. They are happy, for the land is plentiful and the land is good. We’re alone I think, we haven’t seen another person in a long time. I can hear other people, but Amos assures me that those are the evil spirits. That does not matter, however, because the land is plentiful, and the land is good. Amos saw the clouds gathering in the sky, “A storm is coming”, he says. He looks at his wife and they head inside. I do not like that I am not allowed inside, but I do not complain, I owe Amos my life from when he rescued me from my burning village. Amos found me and told me my family was dead, I was confused because I could hear them calling, but Amos assured me that those were evil spirits trying to lure me to them. He grabbed me and took me to his farm, it’s been years since that day. I am not sad however, because the land is plentiful and the land is good. As the rain comes pouring down I try to open the shed, Amos has closed it. I know I will have to stand out here and wait until the rain has ceased, because I would not want to disturb Amos, and I would not want to break any of his rules. I am happy here, even though Amos does not let me leave. I always find bruises on my back after I do something wrong, but I do not remember where they are from. I am not scared, however, because the land is plentiful and the land is good. I have seen my family a few times since I came here, the first time they were in the distance and they were calling my name, Amos explained that the evil spirits had come back. He locked me in my room in the shed until he got rid of them. I still see the evil spirits sometimes, when I sneak out of the shed at night, I see them caring for the animals and tending to the fields. I am not sure what the evil spirits are trying to do, but I know Amos does not like them, for he screams at them and whips them. I sometimes hear the spirits, calling at me with my family’s voices. The voice of my father would yell most of the day, until one day it stopped. I am calm, however, because Amos has everything under control. I am calm because the land is plentiful, and the land is good. As the rain comes pouring down I try to open the shed, Amos has closed it. I know I will have to stand out here and wait until the rain has ceased, because I would not want to disturb Amos, and I would not want to break any of his rules. I am happy here, even though Amos does not let me leave. I always find bruises on my back after I do something wrong, but I do not remember where they are from. However I do not worry, because the land is plentiful and the land is good.