A shiver ran through Bianca’s spine. Through her window, she could see the blanket of snow and how it tucked the concrete floor. The sunrise was creeping behind the buildings, announcing the beginning of the last day of the year. Leaving her bed and stepping into the cold was less of a hassle than it was most winter days, the promise of her first time watching the ball drop pulling her up and into the day. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, flushed cheeks from the cold in her porcelain skin. Amid her excitement, there was a slight weight. The subtle reminder lingered on her mind that this time she would be alone for the holidays, her roommate Clara away in Bali with her boyfriend, her family back in Austin. She shook it out of her head, and opened the hot water of the shower, letting her troubles float away with the steam. After her shower, she got ready and headed over to Bite of the Apple, the small coffee shop a block away from her place. She had some work she wanted to get ahead on to start the New Year off with the right foot. She set her things up in a long, wooden table after ordering a green tea, and got to work on a book cover design. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a tall body covered in a long, black coat. She felt a steady glance positioned over her body and caught the tall man staring at her. As soon as she noticed, he turned around, pretending it had never happened. He was attractive, pretty conventionally so. Strong jawline, dark hair, dark eyes. Bianca struggled going back to work after that interaction, especially after she got startled by a deep voice. “Do you think you could plug this in there?” it asked. Bianca jumped, barely, out of surprise, and looked to her right to find the forementioned man showing her a laptop charger. “Yes, sure thing,” she replied, agitated, recovering from the initial shock. “You startled me,” she added, laughing. “Yeah, I noticed. Sorry about that,” and then, the man smiled. His teeth were a little crooked, overlapping on the front, but nothing that made his presence significantly less alluring. And somehow, they started talking. The man’s name was Clark, and he was a real estate agent. He had just moved to New York a couple months ago, just like Bianca. The conversation carried on smoothly, and eventually, they casually and discretely slipped some waves of laughter out of each other. “So what are you doing tonight, Bianca? Anything special planned?” A shy smile crossed her face as she looked down at her keyboard. “Well, if you count ordering take-out and then walking to Times Square in freezing weather as exciting, yes.” “Don’t tell me you’re spending it alone,” he said, a concerned look spreading over his face. “Well, I won’t tell you then,” Bianca chuckled. “Me and my roommates are throwing a small party tonight at our apartment, heading over to Times Square after, and then going to an after-party.” “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied shyly. “I just met you, and I don’t know any of your friends either, I don’t wanna be a burden. I’m not a big party person.” “Nonsense. Give me your phone and text me your address, I’ll pick you up at 9,” Clark handed her his phone. After a moment of hesitation, she punched in her number and saved herself. “Fine,” she said. “Can’t promise I won’t change my mind last minute, though.” “Sounds fair to me,” he replied with a laugh and started gathering his things. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.” “No worries, anytime. No one should spend New Years alone.” He picked up his stuff and left. Shortly after, Bianca did too. ----- Bianca gracefully blushed her cheeks pink, when she got interrupted by her phone buzzing: Clark was here. Her heart threatened to pop out of her chest in shaking motions. Why was she so nervous? Then, the phone started ringing. “Hello?” she picked up, trying to keep her voice from quivering. “Hey! I’m so sorry to delay this further, but could I use your bathroom?” “Yes! I’ll let you in now.” And so she did. A few moments later, a knock on the door. “Hi, you look so gorgeous,” Clark said after Bianca opened the door. His body relaxed as he said it as if for a moment, it had forgotten its own needs and impulses. “Thank you,” Bianca blushed. “The bathroom is right there,” she said, pointing to a door at their left. The apartment was small, so it wasn’t too hard to find. He left his wallet and phone on the table at the entrance before heading in. “I always drop these in the toilet, that’s how all my past phones have left me,” he said, a charming smile creeping into his face. He shut the door behind him, and Bianca waited outside, strolling around her own apartment as if seeing it for the first time. What did it say about her to a stranger? The beige walls, the postcards hanging from them, the light grey comforter? Did it speak about her soul to someone? Did it whisper? Her thoughts were interrupted by several buzzing sounds. She turned around and realized they came from Clark’s phone. Who was texting him so much? Curiosity got the worst of Bianca, and she decided to casually peek. The texts were all from an unknown number, notifications piling on top of the other. The latest caught Bianca’s eye, it was an address. Then, another message followed. “Want it here by midnight. Or else.” A feeling of dread washed over her body. Something was terribly wrong. Why was Clark receiving these texts? Wasn’t he supposed to be with her at Times Square at midnight? Was it dumb of her to go out with a guy he had just met, alone at night? The bathroom door opened and startled her, but she tried to contain her surprise as much as she could. “Are you ready?” Clark asked. “Yes! Just let me grab my wallet,” Bianca said this as she headed over to her nightstand, knowing full well that her wallet was already in the purse she was holding. Her pepper spray wasn’t, though, and she discretely took it out of her drawer and slipped it in her bag. They went down to his car, Bianca’s thoughts racing too fast for her to catch up. She forced herself to breathe, to carry a normal conversation. They arrived at an apartment building after a few minutes, and Bianca began to relax. She could hear the music even from outside, everything seemed reasonable. Maybe it was an overreaction, after all, looking too deep into things that didn’t need that much looking into. She had a habit of doing that. They got into the apartment and went on the elevator, and she watched as Clark punched the 10th-floor button. Then, something caught her eye. He was missing his left earlobe. “What happened to you there?” she asked, pointing at it. She saw a flicker of fear in his eyes, leaving them so quick it could’ve never even been there. “It was an accident,” he replied naturally as if there were many things that could casually snap your earlobe away. As soon as she was gonna respond, the elevator doors opened, and she was forced to step out and into the mass of people. “I’m gonna get us a drink. Will you be fine waiting here?” Clark asked. Bianca nodded and settled on the couch behind her, watching him walk away to a table full of different bottles and people. The party had a lot of people for the size of the place, but it wasn’t too big either. Music was blasting loudly, but people were talking without shouting, and some others were dancing. It was a great precursor to the New Year, Bianca thought. She turned to see Clark talking to some people, holding two red cups in his hands. Some of the people gave her a couple looks as if they knew something she didn’t. A shadow had washed over Clark’s face, and he looked serious for a minute. I’m not drinking whatever he brought me, Bianca thought. There was no way in hell. When he walked over to her, the seriousness was gone and had been replaced by the usual charming smile. They got caught up in conversation, while Bianca stayed alert to any clues, and pretended to take sips of her drink. Clark excused himself to take a call, and even though Bianca realized it was only 11:30 and she was close enough to make it to midnight and head over to Times Square, something in her gut told her not to: she wanted to go home, and she wanted to go now. She saw him heading back after maintaining the same seriousness on his phone call. She could’ve sworn she also saw a flash of anger at a given moment. “Hey, I’m really thankful for your invitation,” she started, “but I’m feeling really sick. I have a big headache, and I just want to go home.” “But it’s almost midnight!” Clark replied. “You’re so close. We’ll leave in about ten minutes for Times Square, and after that, I’ll drive you home myself.” “Thank you, but I really don’t feel well,” she was scared this would happen. The insistence, the charm. Her gut was yelling at her to get out. “I don’t want to take you away from all this fun or ruin your plans, though. You’ve already done enough. I’ll just Uber.” “Nonsense. If you really need to go home right now, then I’ll take you and just meet my friends at Times Square after. You live pretty close to there, so it’s not out of the way,” and before she could say anything, he squeezed her hand and said, “let me grab my coat.” This was not what she had planned, but it was better than nothing. The doubt of if she was overreacting crept back into her head. Clark was kind, he was respectful. Why was she acting crazy? They went down and got in the car. It was 11:45. They drove into the distance, and Bianca was clutching her pepper spray in her bag. She let her body relax as she spotted the Chinese place that was on the corner of her street, but it tensed up again as she realized they were driving past it and further away. “My place is back there,” she told him, but he didn’t seem to acknowledge it. “Clark. Where are you taking me? We just passed my place.” “We’re going to Times Square,” he replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He tried to show his usual charming smile, but it died halfway. “I told you I wanna go home. I don’t care about Times Square anymore.” He didn’t stop, though. If anything, he went faster. Bianca tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t give in. “Clark, let me out of here.” “I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he snapped. “And you better shut up about it, or it won’t go well for you. You’re gonna make someone very rich, and you’re gonna help me stay alive till I can get away.” “What do you mean? Where are you taking me?” “See,” he proceeded, caught up in his own narrative, “that girl Stephanie was too much trouble. I guess that’s who he wanted, that’s the important girl. You’re nobody. But if you’re Stephanie, you’re somebody. And I need somebody.” Suddenly, he jerked the car to a stop when the red light came on, then looked straight at Bianca’s eyes. Where there was once charm, now lay terror. “I made the mistake of getting rid of her because she was annoying and loud. But he doesn’t know that. He just knows he needs her, and they’re looking for her, and he has the power to get the ransom money from notable people. Once they realize you’re irrelevant, I’ll be long gone.” The car came back to motion. Bianca’s brain was going a thousand miles per second. How did this happen? But then, she remembered the pepper spray in her bag. She clutched it tightly, and when the car came to a stop again, she sprayed Clark in the face. She fidgeted with the door until she got it open and ran. They were close enough to Times Square by now, and she decided the mass of people was the safest place she could be now, blending into other bodies. She regularly checked behind her, terrified he was there, waiting. It was 11:59 The countdown began. Ten, nine, eight, seven. Her body began to relax, telling herself it was foolish to believe he had found her. Six, five, four. The New Year was coming, she was right where she wanted. She had escaped. She would be okay. Three, two. A cold hand on her shoulder. One. Warm breath on her neck and unintelligible words murmured into her ear. Then, the screams, and the ball. Zero. Happy New Year.


Cacophonous sounds of terror pierced the air. An orchestra of chaos wreaked havoc all around. Curdling screams, obscene battle cries intertwined with the shrill clanging of swords and the striking of arrows as they hit their targets. Horses pained brays’ go unnoticed as champions force their chariots to ride through the fray. Blood soaked the earth, the blood of enemies, the blood of allies and the blood of innocents. Bodies littered the floor, the preponderance of them lay in the most perturbing positions and disgusting places. The fight has lasted too long already. Flags flew high, each side fighting for their honour and their belief. Yet their wake will leave only destruction behind. They would make widows out of women, orphans out of children, scared little boys out of soldiers, empty men out of champions, calamity out of peace and terror out of joy. War brought devastation to everyone but the heartless who found pleasure in bloodshed and entropy. Amid this massacre, a temple stood above the battlefield. It’s white pristine marble untouched and untainted by mortal blood. So far, it is safe. It wasn’t a big temple. Compared to the other beautiful, looming buildings around it, it was small. It was slighted and inconspicuous. It was perfect. Hidden within the ivory-coloured walls of the temple, she huddled close to herself, hunched over as muted sobs wracked her body. Her hand clasped her mouth tightly, suffocating her wails of anguish. She was Cassandra, Princess of Troy. And here she sat, trembling -no, cowering- in the Temple of Athena. Raising her trembling hands to her face, she desperately tried to claw away the tears from her face. She was Cassandra, Princess of Troy. She needed to be courageous, powerful. Worthy of her title as a monarch of Troy. But her tears wouldn’t subside, they wouldn’t stop. Every heart-wrenching sound of the war below echoed faintly throughout the sanctuary. Every sound made her quiver with fear. Gasping for air, she breathed erratically, painfully. Each breath she took felt as suffocating as if she were trying to breathe underwater. The horror of the war outside was distant now. All she could hear was her heartbeat. It’s rapid, rhythmic melody taunting her as an unwanted reminder of her mortality. Her eyes were wide with terror, too petrified to blink. No amount of self-assurance could make this hysteria wane. Oh, how cursed she was, Cassandra of Troy. A High Priestess, a Princess, a favourite of the god Apollo. ‘Beautiful’, everyone had praised. Be them mortal or divine. Adored by all, she enamoured everyone. Even the god of the Sun, Music and Prophecy Apollo, was besotted by her. And as proof of his enthrallment, he approached her with gifts. “I will bestow upon you, prophecy and foresight. In return, you will heed my requests and fulfil my desires,” the god had offered her, “you will become a priestess of Apollo.” “I accept,” Cassandra had said. A humble smile on her face, but a flicker of defiance gleamed in her eyes. How foolish she was, to try and defy a god. Anyone would think it senseless to deny one of the Pantheon. Anyone but her. Apollo was outraged that she dared to refuse him even after their deal. Furious that she wouldn’t comply with his advances onto her, the seething Apollo did not see it fit to refute the gift he’d bestowed upon her. Oh no. That would be far too kind. No instead, he placed a curse on the human he once desired. “Every prophecy you tell will tell only the perfect truth,” he spat, “But no one will ever again believe any truth you speak.” It was all because of one god’s fury that no one heeded her forebodings of the Fall of Troy. She had done everything in her power to try to get them to listen. To make her people listen. It didn’t work. It never did. Every prophecy she foretold from the day she was cursed, was never acknowledged as veracious. Every truth she spoke was rejected, ridiculed and dismissed. She could only watch as every divination, every revelation she had foreshadowed whether it was exhilarating or heartbreaking, it would always come true. And no one believed her until it was too late. Sitting on the cold marble in Athena’s Temple, Cassandra closed her eyes and gave one last prayer as the pounding of footsteps grew louder. She’d known what was to come. Cassandra had seen it thousands of times. Its visions plagued her dreams, leaving her with sleepless nights in her wake. This tragedy had been burned into her mind until she knew the events to the second they would occur. The Greek soldiers would storm into the temple, dirtying it with their bloodied bodies, Ajax leading the assault. He would examine every corner and every crevice hungrily for a suitable enough, beautiful enough trophy to claim as his prize. He would look everywhere. He would murder the women. Slit the throats of the children and completely defile every sacred artifact on the holy grounds. And eventually, he would find her kneeling behind the statue of Athena with her eyes closed, her face tear-streaked but still as beautiful as she was known to be. And he would decide then and there, that she would become his prize. She ended her soundless prayer and opened her eyes. Standing there, in twisted glory, was Ajax, whose sword was held tightly in his hand, soaked with the blood of her people. And now, it pointed at her throat threateningly. Cassandra straightened her back and held her head up high, looking Ajax in the eyes. She refused to submit to a man like him. Her body trembled as tears fell from her eyes. But she did not recoil from his looming figure. She repulsed to let him see her cower beneath him. Even if she were to die, she would do so with pride. “Curse the gods,” she rasped as she mustered her last act of defiance, eyes livid. “Curse the truth.”


Before the beginning of history, many thousands of years ago, a parasite was created. Ravenous, and greedy, and through its actions it began to tear at the very fabric of reality.*Edina, Minnesota, United States of America, June 23rd, 2025*. Phil clambered to the top of his steel death trap, and began to clear the leaves from his drain pipes. He is a man of 63, a decade too old for such a chore, but with no child and only his even older wife to hold the ladder, he had little choice but to do it himself. The hairs on his head had all turned gray years ago, and his weight had all shifted towards his abdomen. His wife, Barbara, 65, held the ladder as steady as she could. Unlike her husband, her hair glowed with color, natural or no. That’s when He arrived, The Stranger, he was driving an old 93 Malibu, its dull blue paint scratched and torn to reveal the rusting aluminum shell beneath. He, having noticed this couple, pulled up to their driveway. From there he began to walk up to them as they both stand transfixed by their individual labors. He was the first to break the silence, a light cough was all that was needed to get Barbara’s attention. She, having been understandably startled by the sudden appearance of this stranger, jerked back almost pulling the ladder with her. He stood in rather plain clothing, a plain long sleeve, a plain pair of jeans, and a plain hair cut of obsidian, and he only looked even plainer in flesh. Nonetheless there seemed to be something wrong with him, his eyes lay framed with red, and the crimson had begun to seep into the very veins of the eye, giving him an appearance like that of a druggie. “Wh-Who are you!?” she trembled, still reeling from the shock.“ No one of consequence.” came the answer, with a voice even more average and yet... off. Almost as if purposefully plain. “I’m simply passing through, I saw you two struggling, may I be of any assistance” it was a formality, not a question, as he began to walk up to the ladder. “You can start by holding this fucker still so’s I don’t fall on my ass” came an angry reply from on high, Phil was holding onto dear life by the very pipes he was meant to clean. “I have a better idea” the stranger’s pale hands clasped onto the sides of the steel trap before continuing “Climb down fella, I like to meet you and finish your job myself”. No complaint was heard from Phil as he practically slid down onto the concrete pavement of his driveway. “‘Preciate it friend” came his thanks before turning a vile gaze towards his wife and quickly returning to being grateful. “May I ask your names before we begin?” “Name’s Phil, and this-” he gestured with his sight, with just a hint of that same vicious look from before “is my wife Barbara” “Pleasure to meet you both” he gave a wide smile, revealing snow white teeth, and quickly leapt onto the ladder without a second thought and cleaned the gutters without any aid. It took him less than a minute, he moved with an otherworldly level of efficiency. The conversation continued on as he worked and soon led them inside. First they made small talk, discussing the weather, talking about road conditions and travel. Then began a different line of query.“So tell me, you have any children?” “Goodness no” Barbara shot out before a second thought could suffocate the first. “Friends and family perhaps?” “We go to a monthly block party every month, hell Barb once dragged me down there while I had a stomach flu, spent half the party in the bathroom because she wanted to” Emphasizing with an indication of quotation “ ‘Save face’, *phhh* while she was saving face I was busy trying to save dinner!” he let out a laugh, although it seemed more an indication of anger than of joy. An awkward silence soon fell over the house as The Stranger continued to smile politely and Barbara began to be filled with a terrible query. Why was The Stranger passing through when he saw them? The thought soon took hold and became all she could think about. But for at least half a minute she dared not ask it. Until finally she could bare it no more, as if holding in the juiciest secret and not being able to tell anyone about it for years. “And why are you here?” Barbara finally found the courage to ask. The stranger took a minute, considering the question quite visibly before finally responding “I’m just passing ‘round” “Surely that can’t be all” Barbara had never been known to keep to herself, nor to leave others alone when they attempt to dodge a question. “Yep, just passing around, visiting and traveling. Although I am considering moving in with some folks if the opportunity presents itself” The Stranger admitted with some grief. “We have a spare guest bed if you need a place for tonig-” her eagerness finally giving way to remembrance, remembrance that she was not the master of the house. She turned an eye towards her husband, fortunately noticing an agreement in his own eyes. “We’d be happy to have you strang- oh shit! Where’re my manners? What’s your name traveler?” said Phil offering a hand as tribute. The Stranger took it and as he stared Phil in the face, and leaned in close before whispering “you may call me... **Death**.” as insects of all form and species began to shamble out from the stranger’s sleeves and writhe their way onto Phil’s own hand as he began to scream and attempt to free his hand, to revoke his sacrifice. But The Stranger’s hand held him with the strength of at least a half dozen men. The Stranger began to turn his neck towards Barbara, who had also begun to scream. Until she saw his face. It had begun to rot, yellow skin gave way to translucent blood, followed by green pus, which gave way to long decayed bone. His eyes now glowed with a necrotic light and he opened his mouth to behold an abyss, only for it to soon be filled with vile black and red. The substance flung from oblivion and branded Barbara and all the furniture around her. he soon turned his attention back towards Phil, still struggling and screaming, he had not yet looked The Stranger in the face since his horrid transformation. With the gentlest, yet most forceful of movements, The Stranger turned Phil’s screaming head towards The Stranger’s own Until they both stared each other down in silence. As Phil stared into The Stranger’s eyes, he felt that same feeling you get when you stare into the sun, but it was not just his eyes that felt it, his whole body now overcome by the sensation. He feared that if he continued to stare his entire being would be extinguished, not capable of withstanding its radiance. Soon, all of Phil’s nerves were engulfed in necrotic flame. The Stranger opened his mouth. Once the deed was done and both husband and wife lay in their living room covered in vicious bile and vomit, The Stranger put back on the mask he had worn when first meeting them, and walked over to his vehicle. As he made his way to the door of his run down vehicle, he stared up towards the sky and said “May your plague spread throughout these lands, and may it devour all of those who dare come in contact with it”. He climbed into the driver’s seat and began to ride. There was work yet to be done. **1**  OP Note: Hello there, thanks for reading through the entire story! My name's Jonathan A. Harkness (with a name like that could I really do anything else as a hobby?). This is the first part of a larger short story, so far I'm only about a couple of parts in, and I've yet to really etched anything in stone yet. The purpose of my posting here isn't limited to me wanting to share a story with you all, I really wanted to get some opinions on it. I have shown the story to some friends, but fear that they've too much of a personal bias to get too much advice on it.What I want is critiques, things that worked and things that didn't, where you think the story should go (I've a small idea, but as I've said nothing's quite solidified and I can adapt), etc.I appreciate your comments. Thank you.


He awoke with a gasp, jolting upright, one hand at his chest, the other grasping out into the empty darkness in front of him. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but Her face was already fading, and he was pulled unwilling into reality. His heart was still pounding inside his ribcage, and his bare chest drenched in sweat, but the heat of the nightmare was already fading, and the nighttime summer breeze through the open window sent a chill through him that made him draw breath. Slowly, he opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust. Across the darkness of the bedroom, a faint blue glow solidified into the display of his digital alarm clock. 2:10 a.m. He sighed and flopped back onto his sweaty sheets, staring at the black ceiling. The dreams came less often now. He had begun to fear that without them, he'd forget the details of Her face, or the sound of Her voice, but the years spent fighting against the shadow of his nightmares had become instinctual, and his recent efforts to prolong the dwindling encounters seemed fruitless. A distant flash of lightning briefly lit the room, and the blinds at the open window rattled as another breeze blew in. He counted silently, waiting for the thunder. It never came. He cast aside the sheet, got out of bed, and shivered again. He grabbed his lighter off the dresser and took one cigarette from the pack laying next to it, picked a crumpled t shirt off the floor where he had thrown it just a few short hours ago, padded barefoot through the dark house, and out the screen door onto the porch. The night was still and heavy. Somewhere at the treeline in the distance a single cricket carried out his song with indifference to the somber mood of the night. Another flash briefly illuminated the sky behind a black silhouette of trees, and he saw for a moment the clouds churning low and purple and ominous. He threw the t shirt over his head, quickly pulled it into place, and stuck the cigarette between his lips as the first sound of thunder rolled over the trees. He lifted the lighter to the cigarette and gave it a flick, and at that moment the wind blew in, snuffing the meager spark. The storm was coming in from the southwest, as was often the case. He gave a wry smile and nodded knowingly in Her direction, before turning his back to the wind. This time he hunched over and cupped the lighter with his other hand, and watched the faint orange glow in his palm as the cigarette took the flame. He drew deep, allowing the burn of the smoke in his lungs to mingle with the familiar ache in his heart. He could no longer get high enough or drunk enough to ease the tightness in his chest, so he'd all but given that up, instead trying to chainsmoke his way into a cancerous early grave. The wind snatched the smoke from his lips as he exhaled, as if his soul was being drawn out of his body, and he watched it spiral up into the darkness and out of sight. In its place, a raindrop fell, landed on his face, and ran down his cheek like a tear. Thunder rolled again, and as the rain began in earnest, he closed his eyes, whispered Her name, and let it wash over him.


I've just decided yup, that's a spaceship when it thumps to the wet sand nearby. It was moving, or falling, fast enough that it seems like it should have broken, but it seems unharmed. It's a big grey egg. I've wondered about this sort of thing before. It came up a lot during my pothead phase: What would you do if a UFO landed? People seemed to come down on the issue based on which science fiction they'd seen or read most recently. I liked to think of myself as the open-minded guy in the group, and I'd seen the most Star Trek, so I often took the position that I'd be the person who wandered up to an alien artifact and held out a hand to shake, hoping for the best. Turns out, I'm not that person. Never meet your heroes. I cower, for what it's worth, because there's no cover anywhere. It's a wide, empty beach and the moon isn't out. My family is probably still asleep in the tents. I like to come out here alone on our camping trips because the stars are impossibly beautiful and my wife doesn't know I still smoke. In fact I realize I haven't dropped my pipe or lighter. They're clenched in my sweaty, vibrating fists. I decide to praise myself for having steady hands, instead of acknowledging that I've probably got a problem. The space egg does nothing. It's not making any noise, or glowing, or anything. It's a little larger than a Volkswagon. I straighten up because the half-crouch is hurting my thighs and pride. A minute or two goes by. I take the remaining hit from my pipe without taking my eyes off the egg, then put it away. So this is it. First Contact. It occurs to me that it's probably technically possible that this thing is just a rock. I squint at it. Am I the world's biggest idiot? I'm comforting myself with the notion that an egg-shaped space rock is still a pretty cool thing to be able to show people, when the side of the thing dials open silently and a person steps out of it, waving vaguely at me. I stare. The figure leans backward in a long, slow stretch, then rotates it's upper body in the familiar "I've been driving too long" movement everyone does. It moves just like a human. It's about six feet tall. It's wearing black pants and a baggy floral patterned shirt. It just kind of looks like a dude. Apparently that's enough for me to step forward and wave, and I say "Hey there," like you do when you pass someone in the parking lot of a grocery store. Immortal words, if this really is First Contact. Shit, did I just start a war? I am too high for this. The space egg dude steps away from his egg, and the side of the thing closes again. He holds out a hand with the wrong number of long fingers and grins at me with a mouth that's confusingly feline. His voice is a quiet, controlled yowl. "How's it going?" We stare at each other. His hand is still out, as if to shake. It's smooth, brown, and has something like narrow, curved, black fingernails. I don't know what to do. My heart feels like it's going to explode but that just happens sometimes when you smoke good pot. The space egg dude yips and rolls his eyes, withdrawing the hand. "First alien?" "Yeah." "Yeah, that tends to be the case out here. Well, I mean you no harm and all that. I'll be out of here in fifteen minutes." He looks around the beach and sighs. "Hard to believe it takes that long to catalogue... this." "I like it here," I say, a little offended. "What are you cataloging?" I'm vaguely aware that I'm not reacting to this situation in anything resembling a reasonable way. This is not what I should be asking. I should not be talking to this being. A normal person would have run away. A really brave and smart person would be asking why the alien speaks English like he's from Long Island. The alien gestures around. "The area. A few cubic units of it, at the atomic level. Because, you know, nowhere else has saltwater and sand." "This is... your job?" "Got a clever one here, don't we?" He yips again and I realize it's a laugh. "Yeah, this is my gig. There's all kinds of nerds and weirdos who buy scans of frontier worlds. My cousin's a scan broker. It's all right. It's fucking boring, but the ratio of pay to actual effort is pleasingly steep." He takes out a little device and sucks on it, then exhales a vapor that sparkles dramatically before vanishing. It's a vape pen. What is happening? It isn't supposed to be like this. I know it. I can feel it the way you feel that voice telling you to get a gym membership, and it has as much authority over me. I can't make myself give a shit. It's like we do this every year when I come camping. I'm just accepting it. Why? "What are you smoking?" "Smoking? God, no, you people still smoke? This is sparkling. Much better for you. Want a hit? I've never seen what happens when one of you guys tries it." "I probably shouldn't," I insist, pulling my own pipe back out again. He's smoking, so I guess it's all right if I do too. "I'm on a trip with family. Can't get too crazy." The alien shrugs. We smoke, together and separately, for a quiet minute. I study his body with interest while the tiny voice inside grows increasingly disturbed. He's not human, his bones and muscles aren't in the right places and his face is all wrong, but he looks enough like one of us that you wouldn't be able to tell the difference from fifty feet away. He's barefoot, standing on broad, clawed tiptoes in the sand. I'm not concerned, just curious, so I ask, "Are you doing something to my emotions somehow?" The alien yips quietly and nods. "Oh yeah. Got to. Are you kidding me? You guys freak out if we don't. Don't worry, it won't hurt you any. It just makes your brain not able to panic until after I leave." "That's pretty neat." "I use it on myself when I'm stressed," he says in agreement. "I keep thinking I should be reacting more strongly to all of this," I admit. "Nice to know I'm not just crazy." "Yeah, well, enjoy that feeling. It goes away once you try to tell someone about the alien you did drugs with." I laugh out loud at that. He's totally right. I laugh again at the thought of someone putting up some kind of First Contact Monument, a great bronze man and alien, ripping fat clouds. "That reminds me," I chuckle, "There are cultures on this planet that do a Peace Pipe ritual when they meet with foreigners or whatever. We're kind of doing that." "Super," the alien purrs. He inhales and exhales dancing light, watching the waves with evident disinterest. "I keep forgetting to ask, why do you look so much like a human?" "What do you mean? I don't look a thing like you." I gesture vaguely at his whole form. "Maybe not superficially, but isn't this kind of crazy, in evolutionary terms? I mean what are the odds of two advanced intelligent races from two totally different worlds, bearing this much of a physical resemblance to each other? I mean you can even speak my language perfectly!" The alien yips repeatedly at this. "Where to begin? First of all, I'm not speaking whatever your language is, that's a brain gadget too. It makes you understand me in your dialect. Second, nothing about this stupid fucking planet is 'advanced' in any sense of the word, which brings me to the next point, your species' level of understanding of evolution, and the conditions of the universe, is childish." That's a lot to swallow, I suppose. "How do you mean?" He gestures up and down at our bodies with the hand holding his glitter device. It trails brief auroras. "This is the template that works. You don't get tool-builders without free hands. You don't get free hands without evolving in trees. You don't get big brains and tribal cooperation without the correct set of behaviors, nutrition, and so on, and so forth. So yeah, nearly every spacefaring species more or less looks like this." "Do they all act like us, too?" This is blowing my mind, sort of. A little. "I guess. They build cities, they conquer each other, global commercial interests replace government and religion, interplanetary culture arises as a by-product of space-based resource gathering operations. Usually takes a few thousand years. Or the species kills itself. I think it's like twelve percent that make it? I don't know. It's been awhile since school." I find I'm packing my pipe again. "Do you want to sit down?" "What? No, I'm leaving in about ninety seconds." I feel sad. The little voice mourns and wails. "That's too bad. There are so many things I want to know. Are more of you coming?" He shrugs and turns towards his space egg. The side of it opens. I can't see inside it, somehow it's blurry. "Depending on who likes these scans, maybe? If you're lucky, you can be a busboy in one of our hotels. Take it easy, human." "Drive safe," I say, waving. He shakes his head and sighs at me as he climbs back into the shadowy innards of the egg. It closes, silent. I watch in awe as it lifts out of the sand without disturbing a grain, leaving a perfect ovoid impression. It slips into the sky. I lose sight of it when I finally blink. And that's when I remember and start screaming.


I was laying on the ground in a place unknown to me. I slowly opened my eyes as I regained consciousness. I stood up, dusting off my clothes. I looked down the horizon to see a herd of cows. I looked around for a bit. I seemed to be on the edge of a forest and a field. I saw what looked to be birch trees all around me. I saw flowers that seemed to slither on the ground as they grew and picked a few. I pocketed the white clovers, thinking that they could be useful. I continued to find different species of flowers and fruit and picked them. I hoped that the fruit wasn’t poisonous. Soon enough, I had gathered enough to fill up the pockets in my jeans. I went back to my starting place and saw a chest right beside my ‘bed’ and opened it. Inside were different wood logs, bread, some more fruit, a pickaxe, and some sticks. I probably looked a bit stupid with how much stuff I was carrying. I carried the logs in the crook of my elbows and carried the pickaxe in my hand. The flowers and fruit I had gathered were sticking out of my pockets. There was a torch placed close to the chest. I picked it up with my other hand and went on my way. I headed south, or at least the direction I thought was south. I saw a bamboo-like plant and harvested it. I shoved it into one of my belt loops and hoped that it would stay there. After wandering for a bit, I saw a herd of cows and came up with an idea. I would tie one of the smaller logs to a stick I had found. I did this and it resulted in a make-shift sword. I also knew that I needed wood. I created an axe using the same method and did what I had to do. So, I put down my stuff, and using the dull sword that I had crafted, I killed 8 of the cows. I skinned them and stored their meat within the satchel I had made from their dried skin. I found some more sticks and placed them on top of the logs I had been carrying. I gathered some more bamboo-like stalks, some stones, rocks, and metals until I saw it. I saw a monster unlike no other. It looked like me but had green skin and blue clothes. It attacked me. I used my sword to defend myself. I’m thankful that my sword attacks were effective. I killed the foul beast. I ran out of the cave I had been mining in, scared of more run-ins with monsters. While I was randomly wandering about, still traumatized from the day’s earlier events, I found a village of some sort. I wandered about the village wondering if I was being rude in any way. I saw that the village had farms, houses, and a cool-looking monument. I didn't know what it was for but it looked quite mystical. I was in deep thought about this monument until I saw a person who resembled me but was slightly different. This... person had a long nose that covered their mouth and arms that were connected by the hands. The person seemed to be mute. They only made ‘huh’ sounds, almost as if they were always asking a question. *‘Were these the people who had placed that chest?’* I thought to myself. It was kind of scary to be in the presence of this thing. I tried to communicate with it but I don’t think it understood. I continued to wander and well, loot the village. I had found armor, some kind of dark crystal, some more bread, a chest to store my findings, and a furnace. I melted the metal I had found into ingots. While I turned the place into my own, it slowly turned to night. I didn’t mind it and continued to loot the village and its farms. While I was doing this, I found wool and made a bed with it. I took the materials and laid them down in the house that I currently call home to make a bed. I then went to sleep.


[FN] The sewing machine hummed along rhythmically, white thread stitching white fabric together. Colorful hands painted with tattoos guided lace and silk where it needed to go; a yellow duckling wrapped in filligree on one hand and an exaggerated cartoon style needle and thread, bobbin and pincushion on the other; the fingernails, shortened by nervous teeth, worked a heavy dark blue fabric through the machine. Nine hours. She scowled at the old fashioned alarm clock, willing it to turn back. Time manipulation still wasn't part of her repertoire. Unfortunate. Nine hours... She had been working at this set of dresses for six weeks straight now; last minute jobs weren't something she normally made a habit of taking on but the client had been willing to pay an exorbitant sum of money, easily making it her most lucrative project ever. The wedding was in two days and this dress still had to be fit to the final bridesmaid, but Allison had never missed a deadline and wasn't about to start now. She clicked the machine off and pulled the elastic from her auburn hair, letting the tension in her scalp bleed away then leaned back and straightened her shoulders, hearing them pop as she did so. "Hey there quazimodo. How's it coming?" Allison grabbed a roll of thread, spun toward the door as quick as she could and launched it toward the voice with fervor. It sailed wide and thunked into the wall a foot from her intended target. A chuckle and grinned at her. "Nice throw A-Rod." Danny stood in the doorway holding a plate with a peanut butter and jam sandwich in one hand and two cups of coffee in paper take-out cups from the cafè around the corner snugged into a cardboard carrying tray in the other. "One cream, one sugar. The left one." She reached. "No no. My left." Allison accepted the coffee and sandwhich with a smile. "Thanks babe, it's like you're inside my brain." Her stomach grumbled at the sight of the food. She hadn't even realized she was hungry. He looked at the incomplete pile of dark blue fabric dangling from the machine as he sipped on his own coffee. "Looks like you'll be done today?" "Yeah, maybe mid afternoon." She told him between bites and sips of coffee. "I'm going to call Angela to come and do a quick test fit later. Could you tidy the kitchen and sweep the floor please?" "Aye m'lady, I could." He smirked. "Thank you for the coffee and food, love. I need to get back to work." Allison had worked late into the previous night and been up before dark this morning. She was tired and her patience was gone but she felt much better with some food and a bit of caffeine in her. "It would appear that I've been dismissed."he said with mock disappointment. He frowned outwardly but a hint of a smile played in his eyes. Allison scrunched her brow and stuck out her tongue at him before spinning around and returning to her task. She sent a text to Angela when she had a better idea of when she would be completed and then returned to her work for the rest of the day, from time to time breaking long enough to stretch and again when Danny brought another cup of coffee and a plate of fruit. At 5:32 and fifteen seconds precisely, there was a knock on the door. Danny's footsteps echoed through the apartment and then a woman's voice drifted down the hall, faint but distinct. Right on time. She pulled the finished dress from the sewing machine and held it in front of her just as a smiling pixie face with a head of short blue hair poked itself around the corner. A loud sqeak erupted from Angela. "So pretty!" Her eyes were wide and she gasped as she stepped into the room. The deep blue, almost black fabric seemed to ripple with light, like a shadowy ocean floor. "Can I try it on?" She was almost giddy. "That's why I called you." Allison respond with a bit of sarcasm in her tone. "Oh, right!" Angela laughed a bit sheepishly. "Here." Allison hung the dress on a wall hook and stepped past her to close the door. "You look exhausted." Angela commented as she pulled the t-shirt that she was wearing off and then removed her jeans before pulling the dress over her head. "Well, it's been a bit of a rush job and I wanted to finish early in case there were any problems." And a rush job it had been. Four bridesmaid dresses in a week and a half. Sixteen hour days. Four thousand pounds of coffee. But the end was in sight now. Tomorrow she would inspect the dresses for imperfections and that would be it. Done. Fini. Terminado. "Yeah, sorry about that. I really am sorry about springing this on you last minute." "Its alright. I can take a few days off after this. How is Denise anyway?" "Still in the hospital. It was a pretty bad accident." Denise was the bride's mother in law and one of the best seamstresses in the state. The wedding had been on short notice to start with and so Angela hadn't been upset nor surprised when they offered the job to someone like Denise. But she was old school. Traditional. She didn't enhance her work the way Allison could. "She says she's going to escape if they don't release her today and she probably would. The surgery went really well but they want to make sure everything is healing." Angela pulled the dress over her head and smoothed the rumpled bits along her hips. "It fits great. How does it look?" "Pretty damn good. Now for the final touch." She reached for a short, loose thread hanging inside the collar and pinched it between her thumb and finger. Her lips became thin and tight. Her eyebrows furrowed a slightly. The thread began to shimmer and then a faint silvery luminescence traced it's way along the stitching of the dress as she had intended to reveal an intricately embroidered flower motif, with an old world Ukrainian flair. The glowing thread had a slightly iridescent quality, shimmering as Angela moved around the dress. "It looks like the bottom of the sea." She marvelled, running her hand over the fabric. "That is so cool." "Want to see the rest of them?" "Of course I do." Allison opened a closet and took out three identical dresses, hanging them from pegs on the wall and then grasped a loose thread on each infusing and illuminating the thread to reveal the embroidery that she had spent so many sleepless nights on. The first was of a red fox on the skirt. It's tail was coiled round it's legs while the head tilted ever so slightly, as if looking at a particularly interesting blade of grass or an unaware and unattended chicken. The fur was finely detailed and and the light rippled as she watched it, blowing in the faintest of breezes. The thread in the fur was a deep red and the glow was only faintly visible, giving the animal a subtle bit of color. The second dress was a raven perched upon a branch. Allison had sewn a deep yellow thread into the eye that was almost lifelike when it luminesced. It to looked at you, into you, and through you no matter where you stood. The final dress had, sewn into it, a group of waves cresting in a traditional Japanese style. The whitecaped crests of the waves shimmered and Angela was reminded of a vacation to to the Oregon coast that she had taken with her family years ago. All that was missing was the smell of the salt air, and the drying seaweed. The sound of the crashing waves. The call of the gulls on the rocks. Angela was silent as she studied the dresses, leaning in close and inspecting the stitches and glowing thread. "These are amazing. Diane is going friggin' love them!" She gushed. "Let me guess. Kaylee." She pointed at the first dress. "Meghan." The second. "Tatsuki." "Yup! And I hope she does. If I'd had more time I could have done more." "Oh shut up." She gave her friend a reproachful look. "You're always so modest and these are perfect." Angela got a twinkle in her eye then. "Soooo... can I see the brides dress?" Allison grinned. "Hell no. You'll wait like everyone else. I'll give them a once over tomorrow then bring them to you guys Saturday morning." "Perfect. I'll text you the address when I get home." "Well you just got here so you aren't leaving yet. I'll get Danny to make us some coffee or tea or something." "I'd love that." Allison opened the door and yelled down the hall, "Dammit Dan! Make us some coffee!" A terrible British accent called back sounding more than a little bit like Mrs. Doubtfire. "Coming right up deary!" They laughed together and Angela called out the door. "Thank you! You're a dear and I love you!" "Hey lady, get your own man." Allison giggled. There was more banter and more laughter as Angela changed back into her own clothes. The dress was hung in the closet next to the others. The floor was swept. Four paper coffee cups were gathered up along with two porcelain ones and a number of plates. Odds and ends of scraps of fabric and rolls of thread were returned to their proper homes or thrown out. "Coffee's ready." Andy's torso was leaning half in the door. "Thanks love." Allison grinned. She pulled a now stuffed bag from the garbage can as Angela set the broom back into the corner. "So just out of curiosity, do you know any single guys with a snappy suit ready to go on short notice?" Her tone was coy, probing. "Wait, what? What happened to Marcus?" Allison was downright shocked. They'd seemed to be perfectly pleased with each others company. She supposed you never could tell what might be going on with people. "Well, things were going great... until they weren't." Offering no further explanation but a furtive glance away, not making eye contact as she pulled her shirt over her head. "Oh geeze. I'm so sorry." "Don't be. We weren't right for each other. Though I do find myself dateless for the wedding now and it's pretty short notice." She pulled her hoodie on and zipped it up while Allison tied off the garbage bag and added a fresh one to the bin. "OK, well let me think." "I was going to ask if maybe your brother, Antony, was free?" "You didn't hear, did you?" "Hear what? Its been a few years since I've talked to him." "He was engaged with a baby on the way. She died giving birth and his daughter passed a week after the birth." "Oh my God. Is he doing ok?" "He's.... healing... I think. He went camping this weekend out to some lake they liked to hike to. Looking for closure I think." "That's so awful. I can't even imagine." And she couldn't. Angela had never really lost anyone close to her so far as Allison knew. Even her grandparents were still healthy enough to make trips to Florida for the winter. Allison felt a welling of emotion constrict her throat. She was supposed to have a niece and new sister now but the world was indifferent to the wants of decent people. It wasn't fair. Seeing her brother lately, she knew the grief was swallowing him as much as he tried to put on the brave, stoic face. Change the subject she thought and forced herself to speak. "Let's not talk about that right now though. We need to find you a date." Allison gestured toward the door. "Shall We?" She switched off the light and closed the door behind them, leaving the fox and the flowers and the raven and the waves to cast their pale glow.


I had spent an entire afternoon weeping over Kavan Rathore’s death, for the eleventh time in a week. It was disorienting to see him outside the grocery store, that very evening, smiling his heart-wrenching, lopsided smile. It had all started with the flu. The one I caught by getting wet in the rain and jumping into puddles like a lunatic. Why did I do all of the above mentioned things? There is no dignified answer to that, I am afraid, so I’ll come out clean. It was a desperate performance of the manic-pixie dream girl, for a boyfriend who was to click a bunch of incredible photos and share them with #mygirlsosweet (he did not, eventually). Three days later, I was sneezing out most of my body fluids and crying out the rest of them, covered in snot and slime. When I rang up my knight in shining armour, to complain, it was mostly crickets chirping on the other side. “Babe, I feel like my head is splitting into two. Also, my throat feels like someone scrubbed it with sandpaper. Catching a cold is the worst thing, and that too right near the end of the second quarter. I am already trembling from the pending workload of missed deadlines and harrowing data presentations.” “Hmm, that sounds bad.” Obviously, it was meant to. Why else would I be complaining about a headache, to a relative stranger at two in the night? “What do you suggest? The medicines I’ve got are not proving to be that effective. Do you know about any other doctor I can go to?” “Yeah, sure.” The phone pinged, I received a forwarded number and he hung up.That was when I decided to call someone useful, someone who felt like a real human being at the other end of the phone, not some brainless, gutless answering machine at a hospital help desk. It was my elder sister, Anisha. She listened to me patiently, agreed that everything should feel like crap when you have the flu and fixed up an appointment at a reasonably priced hospital, quite close to my flat. And just because we share the same DNA, she also joined me in trashing my boyfriend, and suggested a really good web series that would lift my mood till the time I felt better. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't even have started watching what I now realize is the worst romantic comedy/horror/supernatural thriller ever. Since I recovered, I have tried to go back to the show, trying to find something that might have made it watchable, but every time it just makes my head swim. I was able to make it through 5 reruns only because I slept through half of them and had my eyes tearing up,clouding my visibility for the rest half. The female lead was a barbie doll, the male lead was a misogynistic, baby faced idiot and the plot was so convoluted and gnarled that if you tried to understand one end of it, you would probably find yourself in some other universe by the other end. Then I remembered what had made my cold-blocked sinuses open-up and glue themselves to the screen. It was the antihero, Kavan Rathore. Best friend to hero, plenty of hidden motives, wrapped in intriguing shades of grey and romantically aloof (by the second rerun, I definitely wanted to be his romantic interest). If the male lead was being pampered by his servants and had women fawning over him, Kavan was putting his life on line for a mysterious, dangerous mission. He was silent, broody and his deep dark eyes swirled with danger and charisma. I almost hadn’t noticed him at first, amidst all the grand gestures of love and supernatural snakes turning into humans. Just as the show became so droll that even my virus infected brain couldn't take it in, the makers zoomed in on his role. Suddenly, Kavan was the one making decisions, carrying out underhand deals, mixing with the bad guys. But my heart knew from the very beginning that this was only a charade, he was probably just misunderstood. Because look at that face! The perfect angled jaw that is chiselled but still is soft near the chin, the curved-bow like mouth and those droopy, black eyes. I knew this character had to have a redemption arc, he was just too good to be bad. This was day no. 3 of the flu. With only a few episodes left, the show was almost inching close to my all time favourite list.Life was good, Kavan had been shown to be a secret protector of the male lead and he would probably walk into the sunset, alone, but looking for love. And then they killed him. Maybe such a delightful heartthrob was fated to die anyway, but I hadn't expected the plot to sacrifice him just for the sake of the male lead delivering an elaborate, useless monologue. My fever and choked throat were nowhere close to the pain of watching him bleed out, gasping and sobbing and pledging his life and friendship to the hero. If someone had been in the same room that day, watching me watch the episode, they would have seen a 24 year old adult woman, sitting among a pile of used handkerchiefs and crumpled tissues, shake and tremble as if her life was coming to an end. Luckily, no one did. But I woke up the next morning with a burning fever and only half aware of where I was. I vaguely remember calling out to my mother, iny empty flat, near noon and then falling asleep on an empty stomach. The doctor looked visibly grim when I turned up for a second check-up. The next phase of the flu began as I walked home after the checkup, clutching a paper bag brimming with shiny silver foils of all sorts of colourful pills and taste-bud-burning cough syrups. Anisha had spoken to my neighbour, a middle-aged banker named Mrs. Sinha and she kindly consented to share her meals with me. The rest of the week is a blur--I remember waking up in the morning to greet Mrs. Sinha, waiting desperately for the dabba of food and trying to snivel back into my flat as soon as possible. The rest of the day I would drift in and out of very garbled childhood dreams. Sometimes I would see my grandmother scolding Anisha and me and in the middle of that I would see the supervisor in my office join in, and add to the steadily growing list of my faults. To ease my mind of this pain I traded in a different kind of torture. I went back to a rerun of the aforementioned web series. This time I skipped most of the introduction, breezed through the meet-cute between the lead pair and finally reached the part of Kavan Rathore’s entry when he saved the female lead and let her think the hero did it, by melting into the shadows. Having a weakness for underdogs in general, I went to sleep holding a bowl of rice and curry, dreaming of the million ways I would have definitely noticed him in the same situation. When the bell rang the next morning, it shattered my nerves and I tipped out of the couch, bowl, rice and curry. This was day 5 and I had stopped bothering about appearances. If Mrs. Sinha was going to see me groggy-eyed, speaking like a zombie in an oil-stained T-shirt, there was nothing much I could do. When I opened the door, craning out my face and trying to hide the rest of the mess I was, she did not appear to be very disturbed. “Good morning, Beta . How are you?” My cheeks burned when I put in the effort to smile. “Much better, Aunty. I would have invited you in but the house is a bit of a mess.” She reached into her bag and I already started extending my arm for my packed lunch. Instead of her usual steel tiffin boxes, she pulled out a crumpled roll of aluminium foil and placed it in my hands. It was disastrously light. My lost appetite made a comeback and rumbled sadly in my stomach. “My maid is on a holiday today, so I packed your lunch in a hurry and didn’t bring the box. You already look much better than yesterday. I think by tomorrow, you will be back on your feet. Take care, bye.” “Bye, Aunty.” My voice floated off weakly, and I didn’t even wait to reach the dinner-table. Closing the door behind me, I unpacked the foil, gulped down the dry aloo paratha she had made, then lumbered off to sleep again. Mrs Sinha's words turned out to be mysteriously prophetic as I woke up in the evening, feeling more aware of the world and slightly less numbed. I decided to walk to the nearest grocery store and stock up the fridge, in a burst of optimism. Near the bread and dairy aisle, my world stopped spinning as I spotted Kavan outside, surveying the store. Beautiful, brave, Kavan Rathore, who sacrificed himself, blood spilling out from his mouth and dove-eyes tearing up before going still. We locked eyes and he smiled--the sad, cynical, drop-dead gorgeous smile I had memorized by now. But something moved behind him and my eyes shifted focus. A huge cargo trolley, squeaked and groaned on its rusty wheels as it made its way towards the grocery store. The boxes on the top swayed dangerously and I bounded out of the store. I already knew that those boxes contained something heavy that would fall on my heartthrob just like they had fallen on the female lead in the show. I would not let him die, I would be the savior's savior. Unfortunately, my depleted stores of energy could not keep up with the run that I had broken into. My legs trembled and collapsed before I could reach the grey checked shirt that I loved so much on Kavan’s broad, athletic figure. The next thing I remember is waking up to Anisha’s powerful eyebrows knitted together in intense focus as she studied my face. “You are in big trouble.” “Did I save Kavan? Is he alright?” “Who?” Anisha’s eyebrows shot into her hairline and her nose curved up viciously. “Kavan, Kavan Rathore. Arrey, the one in that web series, he was standing outside the grocery store.” I tried to move and saw that I was on drip, on a hospital bed. “You mean the actor who plays him? And which grocery store? I brought you to the hospital straight from your flat and Mrs. Sinha told me you hadn’t left your flat in the last 3 days.” “What happened to me? Is the flu getting bad?” Anisha smacked the hospital case file shut. “Yeah, it did get bad. That tends to happen when you starve a sick, weakened body and forget to take most of your medicines.” Things had gone too far for me to be indignant at being scolded like a 5 year old. “It wasn’t me, just the delirium--it knocked me completely out of my senses.” It has been a year since the Week of the Flu. I have broken up with my pre-flu boyfriend (no drama at all--he calmly told me to pay my half of the bill as we left the eatery where we broke up.) Nowadays I only watch non-fiction--documentaries, travel shows--you know, mature adult stuff. I have given up on all--just a second, my phone is ringing, it's Anisha. “Have you watched the actor who played Kavan Rathore, in his recent interview?” She wasn’t going to let me forget this so easily, was she? “No, because I’m not interested, thank you very much.” “I’m sending the link. Watch it right now. He is talking about a paranormal experience he has had last year.” I wasted 5 minutes, trying to convince myself I was not interested, before tuning into the interview. The host asked him whether he believed in ghosts, being a part of such a hugely popular supernatural show. He looked a bit different, almost like a twin. Same features, same voice but I felt nothing like watching my Kavan Rathore. “Not in ghosts,” he replied, “but I did have a very strange experience last year. I had a minor head injury, and initially I used to have nonsensical dreams. I would see this 5-feet-4 woman smiling at me from a grocery store I have never been to. I kept having the same dream again and again. It almost felt like she was someone I had met.” I stopped watching, locked down my phone and went back to work. THE END


Four narrow walls frame the room, every visible surface covered by cheap, plastic padding. A compact screen sits embedded in the far end of the room. There was barely enough room to sleep, let alone stand. But, the Coffin House was all I could afford. At least until I could find work. Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead end job as a security guard at Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. Though in retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid corporate augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you paid until you died, and then they'd rip out your ware and slap it into the next schmuck. Better to live as a free man. Still, the streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. Especially with Locust mercenaries hot on my heels. But, I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. Not since I found a hole in the Combat Zone, outside the Sprawl. And I'd dug in like a tick. I hadn't left the room in days, not outside of using the bathroom down the hall. Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a passport, and be halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, and had one foot in the grave, surrounded by cheap gangers. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goons skull cracked open like a grape in a vice. Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent a message. Finally, the notification pings in my HUD. Before I can finish reading Dennis' message I'm halfway out the door. The smell cigarettes clings to the peeling wallpaper, the hallway just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shoots a glance. "Checking out, Nico?" "Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari." She grins, revealing a neon smile, her eyes shifting colors in time with her grill. "Be safe!" A frigid palor hangs above the city, as gusts of wind rip through the streets. Droves of beligerent citizens prowl the streets, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turn up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as fast as I discretely can. My head on a swivel, I pass through the alley and into the Bowels. Dennis' shop shouldn't be far now. A group of gangers eyes me from across the way, and sparks flicker along my cyber arm. 'Don't fuck with me', a message I do my best to project. They stare on, unflinching. I recognize their leathers:Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of it had been spent on a would be mugger, last week. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can see it. Smell it. They think I'm prey, a mark to be defiled and burgled. I slide into an alley, and take off. Before long I hear them behind me. Bullets tear through the air, and I do my best to weave. Pain shoots through my body, as one lands in my shoulder. "Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, maybe take a look at all those fancy augs!" I rip a brick from the wall, spinning into the throw. It connects, embedding itself one of the gangers chests. With a wet squelch he slumps over, and I dive for his gun. His body spasms as I rip the cheap assault rifle from his hand, and launch his soon to be corpse into his allies. The trigger compresses beneath my finger and I fill the alley with hot lead, sprinting away from the crowd. Within fifteen minutes, I lose the crowd. Ahead, I spot Dennis' shop. A small, ramshackle building constructed of refuse and detritus. A neon sign atop the door reads "General Store", flickering in and out. Relics of the 21st century fill the room, tapes and CD's filling display shelves alongside busts of retro celebrities. The scent of mildew and console duster hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of oil and sweat. I spot Dennis behind the counter, forty something, balding and rotund, he's clad in high fashion from several seasons ago. He looks nervous. "Nico! You made it." His eyes dart to the closet, then to me. I can hear it in his voice, he's afraid. "You got my new identity facilitated, then?" As I ask, I move nonchalantly towards the closet. I click on my thermal vision, and immediately pick up a heat signature, jammed inside. "Of-ofcourse, Nico." A stream of lead, pours across the room. I catch two bullets in the shoulder before I pivot away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. I poke my head out, and there the son of a bitch is. Seven feet tall, and chromed to the gills. The kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric augger blush. He sends another volley, and I dart to another shelf, hands fumbling for something of use. Finally, I find it. An industrial pry bar that looks more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatches a stack of buzz saw blades, chipped and pitted. Two blades find purchase in his rib cage. He sprays the assault rifle again, and this time he catches my leg. I see Dennis out of the corner of my eye, running to the door. The buzzsaw blade nearly tears his leg off, and soon the floors are slick with blood. He cries out. I force a chuckle. Soon I'm darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I'm not running head on into my death. He catches me again, twice more in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade takes his hand off. He scrambles, trying to shift his cover. But it's too late. The pry bar finds a home between his ribs. I leave him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood. "You fucked me, Dennis." "I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" His hand breaks beneath my boot, and a glob of spit finds his forehead. I grab an oily rag from the counter and stuff it inside his mouth. "Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?" "Some random street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream." I can barely understand him with the gag in his mouth. With a quick poke, the rag is lodged in his throat. I watch him struggle for air, turning blue while I douse the place in accelerant. The punk in the closet takes off, non verbally thanking me for his life. The flames dance beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I try to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I head back to Coffin House.


Hello! I'm a young writer looking for feedback on a short story I wrote a year ago in the spirit of Halloween. Any input would be greatly appreciated, especially with word choice. Thank you!  The little girl’s lemonade stand was set up in her driveway. The house behind her was covered in ivy and was losing its shutters. The girl in question? Well, she too seemed to be rather in bad shape. Her hair was splitting at the ends and could probably use a good wash. Her skin was a pale, pasty white. The dress she was wearing appeared to be made of an old bedsheet. A sign laid out in front of the table read, “Lemonade 15 cents.” “Hello,” Henry said to her. “How are you this morning?” The girl said nothing. “I’ll take a glass of lemonade,” he continued. The poor girl seemed in need of a morale boost, and what better way to do that than to buy her product? The girl still said nothing. She grasped the handle of the pitcher and dumped a small amount of the contents into a plastic cup. Henry passed her a dime and a nickel. She fingered the dime and held it up to her wide eyes. It was a strange sight. 15 cents couldn’t even buy her a gumball. He shook the thought away and grabbed his cup. The lemonade in the cup was a light yellow with a tint of pink. He swallowed. There wasn’t any food coloring around. There also was not a pepper shaker or an opium bottle, he thought to himself. It’s certainly safe. It must be. Henry took a nice, deep sip. It was the most delicious lemonade he had tasted in years. “Not bad,” he said aloud. The girl smiled. It was a noticably sad smile. It made him even more apprehensive to finishing the glass, but he was so thirsty, and the lemonade was quite good. What was the worst that could happen? He thumbed through his wallet. How could it be that he only had dollar bills? He sighed. Oh well. He passed the girl a dollar bill and told her, “This is all I have. Can you make change?” The girl shook her head. “I’ll take whatever that can buy.” It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be. Did he? He tried to think back to his daily calendar reading. He couldn’t recall anything on it. What would it hurt to stay a bit longer? The girl’s face lit up once more. She counted a little on her fingers and removed seven cups from the stack. Henry placed his hand on hers. It was surprisingly cold. “I don’t need the 7th cup. I can deal with just the 6.” The girl shook her head. “Free,” she muttered, filling the cups one by one. He downed the cups as she poured them. They were once again delicious, and the girl’s smile only grew wider as he continued to drink. He finished the seventh cup and licked his lips. “This is delicious,” he told the girl. She nodded. “More?” He shrugged. Passing over his wallet, he said, “Take what you want,” his words slurring. She nodded, emtying the wallet. She grabbed another stack of cups and another pitcher. She filled a cup, which he then drank, then the process repeated itself. He watched as she poured the last drops of the second pitcher into one of the cups. She looked up at him. “Follow me.” He cocked his head. Her blurry little face stared at him sadly. “What?” “Need to make more,” she whispered. He nodded. “Okay.” She made her way to the door, Henry, dizzy and confused, following close behind. As they got inside, the door swung closed behind them. He jumped. Something was wrong. Why would he be so scared of a sound he heard every day, likely more than once? The girl grabbed his arm and pulled him up to the kitchen. She made her way up to the counter. He watched as she prepared more lemonade. There was one difference, however. The pink color was gone. He looked at her. “Put the pink in!”, he told her, his words stringing together and slurring once more. She looked at him, thinking, and passed him the pitcher. She then turned back to a small door in the back of the room. She pulled on the doorknob and looked inside. She grinned. She led him up to the entrance. “Pantry?”, he guessed. She shook her head. “Look?” He nodded. “Sure.” She swung the door open wider. He looked inside and saw nothing but darkness. Before he could say anything, the girl shoved him in with force that he could scarcely believe had come from her. The door slammed shut behind him. Blinding bright stadium lights shot on on either side of him. He looked down at the pitcher. It had sprung several small leaks on the side, causing some of it to spill out onto the floor. He gasped and placed his hands to the holes, desperate to save the delicious substance. He lapped up some of the lemonade on the floor. It was not, however, the same as it had been before, it seemed. The heavenly flavor was replaced by the inherent sourness of pure lemon juice. He spat it out. The pink, he thought to himself. It had never been added. What could it have been to disuise the bitter, acidic taste that now lingered in his mouth? He suddenly heard a moan from the other side of the room. He stood up and ventured over to the source of the sound. More lights shot on as he moved into darkness. When he reached the wall, he saw a young woman facing towards the wall, banging on the metal surface. She turned to him. He shrieked. The skin on her face had started to dissolve and fall off. She moaned again and grabbed his leg. He felt a burning sensation there and looked down to see her hand, dripping with acid, removing itself from a patch of melting skin. “Don’t drink the lemonade,” she forced, her voice raspy, like her throat was dissolving too. He screamed and ran back to the door where he had been thrown in from, the skin on his leg peeling down. He banged on the door. He shouted for help, the same raspy sound echoing back to him. He felt like he had swallowed several razor blades. He reached for his neck, swallowing. As he removed his hand, he saw the same acid dripping from both his hand and his throat. He sat down. The pink was some sort of drug, he thought to himself. It must have been. The lemonade was, what? Just pure acid? Some chemical cocktail? He shuddered. Glancing back at his reflection, he saw what he had seen on the woman’s face. Instead of screaming, he got to his feet. He stumbled into a crawling position and once again made his way across the room. The young woman sat in the same position, wailing for help in her raspy, strangled voice. She noticed his reflection beside hers and murmured, “You drank the lemonade, didn’t you?” He nodded. “It was delicious until I got in here.” She coughed. “Acid.” So he had been correct. “What happens now?” She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, she started another coughing fit. After a few seconds of racuous coughing, she spat out a large mass of blood and thick chunks of tissue, all of which were melting into puddles. Her eyes glazed over. Henry swallowed. It had become clear what was going to happen to him. The woman’s body collapsed onto him, spreading the acid along his legs and stomach. He yelped in shock and pain. That was the next step. Death. What was there to do but wait? The sound of a door opening and slamming shut shook him out of his fancy. He looked back to see a boy about the girl’s age fall into the room. Henry screamed to alert him that he was not alone. His pitcher had also cracked, but he was wise enough to leave it there. He ventured out to the middle of the room, taking up all of his aching body’s strength. The boy too had set out to find the source of the noise. He stopped, seeing the mass of Henry’s body in the dark. As he took another step, the lights shot on, revealing the grotesque view that Henry had seen on the woman’s face. He screamed, louder and louder still as the last of the skin on Henry’s neck began to dribble off. Only a small amount of skin remained on his face. The boy turned and screeched louder than Henry had heard in anything in his life. He banged on the wall, desperate to get away from the pile of Henry. Forcing out the words, Henry rasped, “How much did you have?” The boy screamed again at the fact that the lump of skin and bones in front of him could talk. It took him a while, but he gathered the courage to yell back, “One cup.” Henry smiled. “I don’t know what happens to you,” he whispered as the last ounce of skin on his leg bubbled out of existence.. The boy turned and ran to the place where he had come in, kicking at the door. And though he could barely hear himself over the screams, Henry was delighted when at that moment he began to cough.


[MF] The Quilt The sound of the air conditioning was a soft hum and gentle breeze rolling across the skin of my cheeks as I laid in bed. Not quite powerful enough to really cover me in cool air, but not a disappointment either. My apartment is old, and the building is older. Boasting oddly narrow archways that once housed actual doors, I always found it mind blowing that this place was still standing. There’s no way it’s up to code. I close my eyes in the dark for a second, completely exhausted but unable to sleep, and reach out for the picture frame on my nightstand. It holds a picture of me and a man. Not just any man, but my love. We took it the first night we spent here, snuggled into our bed on a mattress on the floor with a flip cellphone. It’s amazing the picture even came out, those things were archaic even when they were brand new technology. My fingers trace the cool glass over the printed image of his body, and smile. Snuggled up under the thin quilt I fought to buy even though we had no money at the time, because I liked it so much. “What in gods name is so fucking great about a damn piece of fabric? I don’t get it.” “Just let me live. I can’t explain it. This needs to be on our bed. Please?” I remember flashing him my sweetest smile. He let me buy it. And it hasn’t left our bed since. Plain and soft and grey, there was just something about it. Kind of like how I felt about him. Simple but special, and so comforting. That’s the thing about a good blanket though. I would assume it’s why a lot of children opt to have one for security purposes. Something so innocuous can provide so much safety, in ways you can’t even imagine, until they come To pass. I suppose the same can be said about almost anything we develop a sentimental attachment to. I knew a girl once who had a lucky cup; took it everywhere with her. To me, it was just a cup, but to her it held liquid happiness. I’m not judging. It’s just funny what we develop attachments to. I reach down to pull it up higher as the air conditioning sends a chill down my spine. The clock reads 3:15 and I know I have to get some sleep. I put the picture back down and sink into the bedding. Languishing in it’s washed and worn cotton, it’s imaginary arms wrapped around me, and I felt my eyelids get heavy finally. Sometimes, on a good day, it still smells like him, and tonight luck is in my favor. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. I bring it firmly up to my nose, inhaling deeply, and whisper a goodnight to the other half of my bed. A bed now occupied only by me, and my quilt.


The gate was large and magnificent. It’s shining, gold-bronze arches at the top had a regal design that seemed Heavenly. For David and Meghan, it was almost frightening to walk through. What if they weren’t worthy? What if they were burned by fire upon entrance? It had started with a map, but not just any map. Meghan and David had been neighbors as children, and when the time called for quarantining at home, Meghan had returned. She’d only lived at the large home for three years from ages 8-11. But she and David had been best friends, always riding bikes and scooters together, going on imaginary adventures, writing stories together, and sword-fighting in the backyard. She also remembered folks saying her house was haunted. Maybe that’s why they left after only three years. She couldn’t remember anything strange happening off the top of her head but she was also just a kid. Nevertheless, her family owned the property, as it had been in their possession for centuries. They had never sold it to an outsider, which Meghan thought strange. Why was it so special? It didn’t matter though. Meghan figured if she was going to be forced to stay inside for an indefinite amount of time, she might as well do it somewhere memorable. Of course, the house came to mind right away. She had packed her bags, jumped on a plane, and made her way to sunny and peaceful Texas. She hadn’t been back since being 11. David had always lived next door but in Texas, that could mean a solid 10-minute walk, at least. Meghan was surprised to find that her favorite childhood friend had also returned to be at home with his family during these uncertain times. She hadn’t gone looking for him but he had shown up at her door, curious as to who could possibly be staying at the estate after it’d been empty all these years. She greeted him with a pleasant surprise and he hugged her equally as pleasantly. It was going to be fun to catch up. Not to mention, David was cute! He’d grown up to be quite the man and little did Meghan know, that David thought she looked just as beautiful. Fortunately, for them, both were single at the time. Meghan invited David to stay over if he wanted, as there was plenty of space for the multitudes. He obliged to stay for a few nights and they decided what better way to waste time than look for treasure! Meghan’s mom had stopped the kids from ravaging around the house when they were younger, as “The house had Noble history not to be tampered with,” in her words. Consequently, the two had mainly played outside but were also forbidden from journeying deep into the woods that surrounded the home. Now, they were going to do both! Day three seemed to be the magical day, as, after hours and hours of investigating the house, David found something unusual: a large, old, crumply-folded piece of paper. It was blank though! But Meghan knew there was something about that piece of paper, as it’d been discovered in a hidden spot. In the movies, they would hold the paper up to fire to reveal secret messages. And it actually worked! Day 4, they followed the mysterious map all the way out to the woods behind the house. And this, my friends, is where our story begins. A whole other story of a whole other world but let me not get ahead of myself! Meghan and David stared dramatically at the top of the incredible, double-doored gate that stood mighty and tall. It was breathtakingly beautiful and yet, otherworldly. “Meg, are you seeing this?!” “With both my eyes.” “How is this possible?” “I don’t think it is.” The map had led the two, old friends to the deep, center of the dark woods and had pointed specifically to two, slender but incredibly tall, trees. Trees that had strange markings on them and seemed in surprisingly good shape to be so ancient. When they had approached the trees, close enough to touch them, suddenly a blinding-bright gate appeared out of nowhere, right in between the trees! This was impossible. “The map...” “What?” “The map,” Meghan repeated, “Turn it over.” On the back, there were riddles and phrases that they didn’t quite understand. Meghan continued, “It says: “ To the worthy, come through.”” David looked at the map. “It also says: “ The Chosen hold the map but now is no time to nap. Go forward before you can go back.”” “Are we worthy?” Meghan asked. David gulped, “I guess there is only one way to find out.” As he approached the gate, the entryway flashed back and forth between intimidating flames of fire and a sheetlike, translucent, wavering light. He looked back at Meghan, “Pray I am worthy!” And he stepped through. “David! No!” But he was gone. Great , thought Meghan. I was beginning to remember why I liked David so much as a kid. Now I’ve lost him again, unless... But could she? Could she find the courage to step through the gate too? What if he was gone forever and she would be too? But what if he was simply on the other side, waiting for her? “The map says to go forward; it led us here. It chose us. We have to be worthy.” With a deep breath, she neared the entryway. She stuck her hand through the portal and nothing happened. Well, okay, that’s a good sign. She then put one foot through the portal and no pain. She looked up and saw the fire disappear and the translucent light shimmering in front of her. Guess I’m worthy . “David!” She called before she realized what she was looking at. She quickly turned around but the portal gate was gone! In front of her appeared to be a city, a very large one at that. But not just any city, it was, it was, it was splendid! Sparkling, tall buildings that appeared to radiantly shine in the bright sun were scattered throughout. People walked all around her and they all appeared to be smiling. The roads were paved in, was that, gold?! Animals of all kinds of colors, that she’d never seen before, leaped about joyfully. And the colors, yes the colors, everything seemed so pretty! She pinched herself. Am I alive? She slowly took one step forward and paused to watch a bright, lavender bird bounce across the path in front of her whistling a delightful melody. The bird seemed almost... human. She looked up in the fluffy, proud green trees and they seemed to almost wave at her in the gentle breeze. The weather couldn’t be more perfect and the animals seemed to agree. Peculiar looking creatures, almost like teddy bears mixed with squirrels, seemed to giggle in the trees as she walked by. Was this real life? No matter, I have to find David, she thought. She found him staring up in amazement at the grand city unfolded in front of them, at yet another gate, equally as dazzling. “Meghan,” he said without even looking at her, “Where are we?” “If we were dead, I’d say Heaven but we aren’t dead, are we?” “I’ve never felt so alive!” He exclaimed and grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s go!” He sounded as playful and free as a child. Meghan couldn’t help but laugh, as she realized how happy she herself felt. This felt like perfection, at its finest. The two skipped down the gold road, which turned into silver, and then rainbow, and then like stars sparkling in the night sky. They were headed towards the tallest, most bedazzling building that they could see, the Castle! As they approached the snowy-white Castle, they began to hear the most enchanting, angelic sound they’d ever heard, like angels singing in another octave all around them! It felt like a dream come true and Disney World was nothing compared to this. Meghan knocked on the front doors of the Castle. Immediately, they opened, and tall men dressed almost like British soldiers in those tall, fluffy hats (or perhaps more like Nutcrackers dressed in white and sparkling silver uniforms), opened the doors smiling. “Welcome to the Home of the High King!” They proudly announced. Meghan and David looked at each other in amazement and smiled. This was awesome! Suddenly, a short, chubby little man scurried up to them. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” He cheerfully exclaimed. “Come on, this way! The King will be so happy to meet you!” He led them around the fancily decorated hallways, as people of all ages, sizes, shapes, and colors looked onward and cheered. “Why are they so happy?” Meghan asked. “Well, you are our newest arrivals of course! We love visitors!” The kind man led the two up turning hallways that were like ramps taking them higher, all around the Castle to the very center, middle of the entire place. “One second,” he said, and just as fast, he was back with two, white, regal-looking, cushioned chairs. “Have a seat and the King will be right with you.” And he was right, just as soon as the two had a seat, there was the King, even more radiant than all they’d seen so far, seeming to smile at them straight through his Emerald eyes. “Hello.” His voice seemed to boom and echo throughout the whole room and beyond. He stood up and he was tall, like the men outside, but he was dressed in all white, except for golden slippers and a gold crown that seemed to shimmer perfectly. There was a glow about him that seemed not of this world. Meghan and David just stared in amazement, once more. He was the most beautiful, living being they had ever seen and yet he felt more powerful too, beyond anything they’d ever experienced. The two had also found themselves suddenly standing straight up, as he had walked in the room, without even realizing they had done that. “Please friends, do have a seat,” he smiled so big. They snapped out of it and plopped back down in the chairs. “What is this place?” David asked. The King laughed with a chuckle so deep and sudden, the whole Castle seemed to respond. “Come, let me show you.” The King walked closer and extended his hand. The two slowly rose and as if in slow-motion, approached the King, never taking their eyes off of him and his glory. Meghan touched his hand and a wave of something shot through her body and seemed to wake up her senses. David touched him and suddenly felt light as a feather, like he could float away. “Whoa, what was that?” Meghan exclaimed. “I’m the King of Heaven,” the wonderful man gently responded, almost in a whisper. “This is...is...is Heaven?” asked David. Laughing, the King responded simply, “It is.” “Are we dead then?” Meghan asked. Still chuckling, the King said, “No, only in a different place.” “But how?” asked David. The King sat down on the step leading up to his glorious, majestic throne. The two sat right beside him like curious children. “David McEntire and Meghan Carter,” he gazed intently at each of them, “Your families are important to me.” “I’m sorry?” “Your ancestors lived to know me and trust me. I did incredible and magnificent things through their lives. They were my friends and now they get to live here with me, in my Royal Kingdom, forever.” “Our families are here?” “Oh, indeed. And one day, if you find my words pleasing and acceptable, you will join them here in Paradise when the time comes.” “I would like that,” said Meghan. “Yeah,” agreed David, “Me too! This place is AMAZING.” “I hope we can get to know each other better,” The King said with a pure warmth and tenderness in his eyes Meghan had never seen. “Not to seem weird,” she began, “But I, I feel like I know you.” “I know you,” said the King, “And I have great plans for the both of you.” “You do?” “I do. You found the map in your home, a home filled with my angels and dedicated to my work, long ago.” “Wow...” said David. “You were chosen, both of you, for such a time as this. Your ancestors prayed bold prayers and now you are reaping the benefits. It is no accident you are here, my children.” The two looked at each other and smiled. “Now, please let me have your hands. I will place them in my bowl of anointed oil and show you things you have never seen. You will see the future and you will know what you must do when you return.” And so, our story goes on...


They say that we are all the heroes of our own stories, but I'd beg to differ. What if we were made to be the sidekick for other's success stories? I thought this was kind of stupid too, until I began to really think about it and reflect on my life. I began to find similarities between my story and Joey's from Yugioh or Brock from Pokémon; yes, I had my own accomplishments but ultimately, I couldn’t see the direction I needed to go in to complete my story, I just seem to be floating around hopping from story to story helping others on their quest with no clear end game for me. My name is Caleb Dudley, I'm a 20-year-old Male living in Florida and this is the story of how I became a sidekick. I started my life as most American kids do; going to school, making friends and not caring about anything except when P.E was. I went to multiple nice schools, not really fitting in anywhere, I was always the outsider, the expendable kid. Not only was I aggressive to my teachers/school staff, there were very few people I really trusted. Looking back at it now I’d say it was because my father wasn’t there much, and my step dad influenced my mother to create a abusive household- hell on earth in the middle of a suburb. I think the only thing that kept me from truly snapping was my childhood best friend Vikram. I can’t thank him enough for keeping me grounded in some of the hardest times of my life. I can see that he was the first hero I became the sidekick for. He was the brains and I was the brawn, we were unstoppable in anything we did. In 4th grade my mother moved us to San Antonio Texas for her work, away from my friends and from my dad I had nothing. This is where I had to develop myself; something snapped in me and I suddenly stopped being aggressive and I stopped crying but I still felt alone. I did find new friends but I knew they only befriended me because I was an outsider and an outsider I would continue to be. 5th grade we moved back to Florida where I attended my old elementary school and was accepted into a International Baccalaureate middle school. This school was supposed to be a government implemented program where they take “gifted” kids from all over the city and put them in a school in the middle of bad neighborhoods. To me things were looking up, we moved back into our old house, I had my friends again and I had my hero again to help me through my shitty living situation. This all came crashing down when I started middle school. See because I had to go to this neighborhood for school I spent about 4 hours of my day on a bus with other kids, both in middle school and high school, in my situation. I thought everything was going great; the same kids who knew about my troubled elementary school years were going to the local middle school, so this was a clean slate. My feelings were affirmed when I started school, for reasons unknown I became the class clown and everyone knew me as such. By 8th grade I was on top of the school, I even became close with most of the cliques in the school; being the glue that made our class so close. This, unfortunately, became the only happiness I had in my life at the time. My best friend, being 2 years older than me and having strict parents, was busy making the most of his high school years, destined to do great things as any hero should. The 4 hours I spent on the bus everyday became my 2nd hell but was also where I met my 2nd hero. My bus ride was where I was bullied almost every single day, they couldn’t make fun of my clothes because there was a uniform requirement at my school but they made fun of everything else they could, sometimes even resorting to physical violence. To this day I hate thinking about my time on that bus. I was ultimately the damsel in distress, which is where my hero came into play. In 8th grade a new high schooler rode our bus named Valarie, just by talking to her you could tell she was a social outcast, just the person to not give a fuck about others opinions. She became my new hero, someone who would help me through 8th grade and protect me from the kids on the bus while I became her sidekick, someone who would be there to talk to her and make her laugh. You probably get the point by now: I remain a social outcast, I get bullied some more, I find a new hero, I move, repeat. You’re probably bored with this post by now and I don’t blame you. This looks like one big sob story to be honest. I guess the only reason I made this was to warn everyone to not be a sidekick like me. I need help, I need a new hero.