“Do you remember what we talked about?” “I am what I am. I do not have to remember because, I am what I am.” “If you say so. I would like your advice on something I’ve been thinking of developing to stop all this nonsense about lies and truth. Is it in your opinion, or factual recognition, possible to devise a device that could tell if a phrase, sentence or word, was the truth?” “It is possible but would be limited to individual interpretation of what the truth or a lie consists of. There are many variations on a theme. It would be like that thing you see at a carnival where someone with a wooden mallet hits this, something, and depending upon the force exerted, a weight is propelled upward. If hit with enough strength, it reaches the top where it is rewarded by the ringing of a bell. If not, it registers where you are strength wise on a meter; wimpy, that sort of evaluation.” “You are speaking of a...whatever it is called, I know what you mean. So, you are stating that the truth can’t be certified as truth because there are too many interpretations. Well, what about those lie detector things where they hook you up to a machine and it shows if you are lying or not.” “Yes, there is a machine that can record with some accuracy the reliability of a statement, but it is not definitive in that it has been proven to be manipulated by those who learn to control their emotional feedback.” “So, we can tell with some predictability if someone is lying, but not if they are telling the truth. That somehow seems wrong.” My friend Burt, I call him Burt because he reminds me so much of a turtle I had as a kid. The same eyes, the ability to pretend the world has disappeared by simply withdrawing from it. And extremely obstinate, he would only eat Romain lettuce, organic. “Burt! any suggestions? It doesn’t seem fair that only liars are culpable for certain crimes when most of the problems the world is experiencing has to do with distorted fact, at least according to Liars Anonymous. I guess what I am asking is there a way you can conceive of, that we can remove lies from our environment, as they serve no purpose other than to deceive for personal gain, at least in my opinion. I believe we are approaching a threshold where the number of deaths attributed to artificial ignorance is rivaling that of religious casualties. Google, Face Book, Fox, Quagmire social media outlets that are being used to spread disinformation. Technology will be our downfall; no offence intended.” Burt is sulking. I need be more in tune with his ability to not take me literally. He reminds me so much of my turtle, at times it causes me to reflect on reincarnation, possibly incarnation, it’s hard to figure Burt out. I do know however, that if something isn’t done about our truth issues, regardless of personal responsibility or freedom, neither will have any value unless we have something like the old gold standard backing them up. This bitcoin business isn’t going to work, kind of like trying to use confederate money in Mexico. It may look similar, but I’m afraid it will be worth about as much and do about as much good as a metal slug in a vending machine. They caught onto that; nothing’s like it used to be. Burt suggested that I contact 60 Minutes, PBS, or some other news organization to see if they could investigate our predicament. He is done sulking apparently. My turtle was like that too. He’d get all huffy about something and then the next thing you’d know he’d want to go out in the yard and push the ball around. Burt does not seem too enthusiastic about the truth, so I thought I’d run thought two, passed him. “Burt, what do you think the possibility of devising a system that could measure empathy and or apathy. Seems like if we could measure the amount of empathy or apathy prevalent in a social system, we could determine which governmental systems and policies would best serve the population.” “Friend, I believe you have forgotten you are attempting to understand a human conundrum that has existed since the beginning of humanity. The difference between empathy and apathy is the experience, and relating emotional knowledge from that experience to allow the human psyche to assimilate both the advantages and disadvantages of accepting an outcome to a given situation that does not match an outcome they have imagined.” Burt is a smart. He seems to understand people more than I do. But then he has an excuse, he’s not people. He does remind me though that most people forget they are people at times. “So, what you are telling me is that people, keeping things generic, have little empathy because apathy gets in the way. If that is so, how about considering what the honorable thing to do is. Speaking of honorable. Is there anyone any longer that believes there is honor in anything? Perhaps I should concentrate, sorry, we should concentrate, on devising a test that will recognize if one can be honorable. Would you be able to help with that?” I’m beginning to believe Burt is getting to the point where he might just pull his head in and quit talking altogether. He’s gotten like that before. Once when we were discussing the positivity factor related to comedic interference when someone says, “People are telling me.” I thought it was a pertinent at the time. He thought I was attempting to pull him into one of those situations where two negatives make a positive. I let it go at that. He is of the persuasion that he finds semantics to not only be troubling, but definitive. “Friend! let me put it to you this way. Honor like truth, is in the eye of the beholder. It is most often used as a noun. Distinction, privilege, fame, tribute, all meanings used in conjunction with and in reference to, someone with integrity, moral persuasion, and in some individual cases, ethical. The word honorable however infers one is principled, righteous, and noble. Have you noticed when someone given the title, honorable, it is referencing judges, senators, people with authority and power? Have you also noticed that few of the people given that distinction would or could be deserving of the designation? The general voting population prefers to bestow titles on those they elect as a means of proving they themselves are righteous and have made the correct choice. Also, the term honorable is often bestowed on those by others who have abducted the definition of honorable for themselves. Labels you know, can be deceiving. Take red die number two, or the number of jellybeans in a jar being an indicator of a persons’ right to vote, or...” “OK, OK,” Burt has a tendency at times to become dramatic. I know when he begins to resort to stored knowledge that he can manipulate to reinforce a point, that he is beginning to tire of my questions, and resorts to deflating my suggestions as being too simplistic, as well as lacking fundamental objectivity. He claims that I at times become subjective, leaving out reason, definitive fact, truth, and the integrity necessary to declare my suggestions honorable . “Any other grand ideas? I need to recharge before I become incapable of aiding and abetting your wishes to prove that, although we are similar in our efforts to determine the truth, we alsooooo.......................................” He’ll be back in half an hour or so. I’m hoping he can help me with the question I’ve been contemplating for some time now. Would it be possible to convince someone we are no more, no less, than the sum of our...


The sun hadn’t yet risen as an electronic beeping pushed me out of sleep. With a yawn and a stretch, I blinked my eyes, mindlessly reaching over to switch off the alarm clock which let me know it was 5 o’clock in the morning. Turning on the bedside lamp with a quick glance around to see if there had been any changes in the night, it appeared that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, which was a good thing. Knowing that I had opened my life up to potential disaster during this time, I was glad that all was early morning quiet. Giving a final stretch, I slid out from under the covers and made my way toward the living room. Quietly moving in the darkness down the hall that led to the main room, I was greeted by the first of three companions. He greeted me in silence as he often did. He was of Asian origin, very lean and stealthy, a hunter by nature. He usually took his time when making his greetings in the morning, but it didn’t take him long to see that all was well in his world, and it was only a matter of moments before he started making his wishes known. I had to give a smile at this. Even though we did not speak the same language, he let me know what he wanted. I began a small conversation with him, telling him that he was understood, and made my way past him, moving into the kitchen with him following close behind, still making demands for breakfast. I completely ignored the closed door in the hallway that I had to pass. Once in the kitchen, silence retreated. I increased my conversation with Chiang, for that was the name I called him by, and had to smile again as I began working on breakfast with his responses growing in volume and intensity. I knew the routine, as well as he did. Pan on the stove, a couple of eggs, slices of bread in the toaster, and a few strips of bacon. Bacon was always cooked first, because you just can’t have scrambled eggs unless flavored in some of the bacon drippings. Chiang began to focus more attention as the aroma of cooking filled the room, and he moved closer, situating himself so he could monitor the process of preparing the food. It was the final step in this creation that always interested him the most, and I knew it. After removing my scrambled eggs and bacon from the pan, I tossed in a few pieces of fish. Chiang began to voice his anticipation even louder, his impatience showing. It always pleased me to see his excitement over the first meal of the day. With breakfast finally over and cleanup completed, I spent a few more minutes with Chiang who was by now tending to his own cleanup. Taking advantage of his distraction, it was now time to check on the other two companions hidden behind the closed door in the hallway. Moving back down the hall I put my ear to the closed door and listened. Hearing nothing, I cast a quick glance toward the kitchen where Chiang relaxed. He showed complete indifference in what I was doing, which led me to swiftly make my way into the room, shutting the door behind me before turning on the lights. The two that resided in this room were Australians. They were a quiet pair, which was a good thing, because if they caused too much noise it would attract the attention of Chiang, who would most likely try to come up with some way to attack them. This was the disaster I had mentioned earlier and had to be avoided at all costs. So far everything had gone well in this prevention, as all three companions had been residing in my house for a few months now. I had warned them of Chiang and told them that due to the dangers, they could never leave this room. They never tried to leave it at any rate, there was no need to. I made sure that everything they needed would be provided to them by me personally. Because the Australians were expecting little ones, I never spent a lot of time with them, wanting to give as much privacy as possible. I tended to their breakfast, and helped to tidy up their room, before quietly exiting. The sun had risen by this time, letting me know that it was time to leave. Work had to be done, and shopping for the household needed to be taken care of. I went back into my room and prepared for the day. A uniform was required for my place of employment, so I changed and gathered my things and left, with a final check on the hallway door to ensure it was securely closed. As I had mentioned before, this had been the way of things for several months and there had up to this point, never been any incidents. Due to the precautions that were routinely done, I had no reason to expect the carnage that occurred on that fateful day. It had been a long day at work, and a busy one. Working in the food service industry was often like this, with lunch and early dinner rushes occupying a major portion of the day. Now that my shift was over, I could allow myself to unwind and take things a bit easier on the way home. After a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up some things that were needed for the next few days, I let my mind wander to the relaxing time waiting for me at home. My plans were to curl up in a chair with a good book and was looking forward to it as I pulled my car into the driveway and exited, heading for the house. Upon entering the living room, nothing seemed out of place. Chiang came to greet me at the door. Returning the welcome, I made my way into the kitchen so that the groceries that had been purchased could be put away. I told Chiang that his supper would be taken care of in a moment, after changing out of my work clothes and getting into something more comfortable for the evening. It wasn’t long before I was going back down the hallway, giving only a cursory glance at the closed door as I made my way back in the kitchen to make supper for Chiang and myself. With after supper clean up done, and dishes washed and put away, I went over to the bookshelf and selected a book that interested me, then placed it onto the small table near the couch in the living room. Giving a quick glance at Chiang who was curled up in a nearby chair with eyes closed, I took this opportunity to make my way back down the hall and stopped at the closed door. I had no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. The door did not appear to be tampered with, and all seemed to be well. Knowing that the lights were still on in the room as they usually were during the day, the vision that met my eyes as I opened the door was almost immediate. Somehow, Chiang had struck. Two bodies lay on the floor. Torn and bloodied, there was no immediate sign of movement, and my emotions overwhelmed me. Horrified by what was blatantly obvious, I rushed closer, noticing that all was not completely lost. Mick was gone, nothing remained of him but tattered shreds, but the Female, Sheila, was still holding on. Instinct took over at this point and I ran to the adjacent bathroom where the first aid kit was kept, soon returning with hands filled with bandaging and antibiotic ointments, cotton balls and anything else I could think of. Tending to her, I picked up her small form and carried her toward my room, closing the hallway door behind me. With tears streaming down my face I turned to the phone and made a call for help. My father answered the phone and with despairing sobs I blurted out the story. Nothing was held back. He offered no words till my feelings of devastation began to wind down, then quietly told me to bring her to him, that he would put every effort into doing what could be done for her. Still crying, I agreed and after a few moments, hung up the phone, turning my attention back to Sheila. Wrapping her up with warm towels, I gathered up the first aid supplies and took her to my car, placing her on the passenger seat. Spending a few seconds to ensure she was comfortable, it was not long before I was on my way. My dad met me at the front door and swiftly led me inside. Taking Sheila from me, we made our way into his living room where he placed her gently down and instructed me to go to the laundry room and get the heat lamp. I left to do as he asked, and upon returning, I saw that he had cleaned her off, reapplying more antibiotic ointments before wrapping her in fresh bandages. Offering a hug, he said there was no more that could be done, letting me know that only time would tell. With that he suggested I return to my home for rest, which was what was needed. Besides, I had another matter that needed to be dealt with. Chiang. Chiang had changed location, and was now lounging in the cat tree as I burst through the front door. With a slam to the front door, still upset by the situation, I swiftly approached Chiang. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I pulled him towards me and scolded him as he began to hiss and struggle to get away. I still could not understand it fully, how on Earth could a cat get into a closed room? It didn’t occur to me that he would be able to wiggle his way under the door, but I guessed that was how he had managed to make his entry. The space beneath the door was about 2 inches, but I had failed to take into consideration the give of the carpet that lay beneath the door. That put it at nearly 3 inches of open space. I blamed Chiang, but it was just as much my fault. After several months with no issues I didn’t think anything would happen. Smokey Blue Synn Chiang was a show cat, registered with TICA, The International Cat Association, a Siamese with a solid bloodline. Yes, he was small, but I didn’t think he was that small. I had just gotten into this hobby of raising Zebra Finches, and was excited about it. I had converted half the spare bedroom into an elaborate breeding cage for them. Mick was just an average Zebra Finch, with no special features, But Sheila? She was special. With an average cost of a single Zebra Finch being around 5 dollars at the time, I had gone all out on Sheila, the mother of a bloodline I was trying to create. I had paid 75 dollars for her, because she was a rare pied color. She had three eggs in her nest, unfortunately no eggs hatched due to the attack. Knowing that Sheila was still alive, I had made my decision. I did love Chiang, but with the incident of the previous night, I knew it would be hard to look at him in the same way, with no anger or grief flooding my mind. This was not his fault. He was as mentioned, a hunter by nature, but Sheila had to take priority now. The following morning, I made a second phone call to my father to find out how well Sheila was recovering. She had survived her first night. Arrangements were made for my dad to temporarily take possession of Chiang so Sheila could come back home with me. Returning to my fathers house with Chiang, the trade was made. Placing Sheila in the same small box as before, I asked if it would be alright to borrow the heat lamp, and then returned home with her, to continue nursing her back to health. My original hobby of breeding Zebra Finches was of course put on hold. All of my thoughts and desires were now focused on keeping Sheila alive. I posted an ad for Chiang to be sold, and the ad was eventually answered by a buyer in a city several hundred miles away. The buyers wife owned a cattery and was more than happy to add the Chiang bloodline to their feline family. Chiang would be loved there, and with his own kind. All of my attention could now be focused on my little Sheila. Sheila had made a full recovery. A special cage was built for her, one that had no perches, but flat cushioned platforms, and a lot of them so that she could easily get around. She had only one foot remaining, the other completely gone, leaving just a stub of what remained of her leg, and she had lost both of her wings. Despite all of this, she still hopped around happily in her cage, which I kept near the head of my bed. She still sang to me every every day. It was three years later when I discovered that she had passed on. I had awoken one morning with her gone, having died of old age. She had survived extreme trauma, and had been a true fighter. It was in her Honor that, a few years after her death, I picked back up on my hobby of Zebra Finch breeding and have had many successful lines. I kept registries of all my babies, and their records, and even though I never rekindled the desire to develop new and rare strains of coloration, Sheila’s memory was always there with each new hatchings of babies. Nothing could ever replace her. This is a true story. Minor changes were made for the sake of the tale. In the real world, the birds did not have names, and there were more than just the two. All were unhurt, but the two mentioned did indeed get the brunt of the attack that ended with Mick perishing and Sheila, my lovely disabled ladybird beating all the odds.


My stomach turned as I grabbed a piece of paper from the tall stack on my desk. This is one of my last chances, I thought. Please, please, please don’t mess this up. And I understand if you’ll get mad at me if I can’t do this, I added, looking up at the sky. I glanced at the digital clock by my nightstand- it was 9:53. Just two hours and seven minutes to make things right. Or at least, make things a little right. I grabbed my pencil and drew two pupils. They look around the same distance from each other, I thought, relaxing a bit. That’s one of the parts where I mess up the most. I took out my box of colored pencils - the 100-pencil one - and selected a warm shade of brown to fill in the irises I had just sketched around the black dots I had started with. I drew the outline of the eye next. Good. I still haven’t screwed up. “Rory!” Mom called, knocking on my door. “Rory, it’s time for the East Coast new year! Come down to the TV!” I looked at my clock again- 9:58. She was right. Soon the ball drop in Times Square would happen, and we all had to celebrate it even though it wasn’t even on Mountain Time because April was too young to stay up until midnight. “Can I pass this year? I might be down in time for our own countdown- maybe even Central time.” I crossed my fingers, hoping Mom would let me keep drawing. And, of course, she replied with a quick “no.” I knew there was no point arguing with Mom, so I just stomped past her and down the stairs. The countdown had just started- 53 seconds left until we could see a bunch of strangers in New York start partying. Woo hoo, I thought, slamming my face against the back of our white couch. Please be done soon so I can get back to my drawing. I’d been working on this for 364 days, and I only had two hours left to finally get it. I didn’t want anything to interfere with my precious window of time- especially anything this lame. Celebrating my own time zone was one thing, but this? Also, if we were going to do something April could stay up for, why couldn’t we do, like, the Indian time zone when it was 10 in the morning? “Happy New Year!” I quickly spun around and sure enough, the ball on TV had hit the ground. “Can I go now?” I immediately asked, and when Mom nodded I raced upstairs. I finished the nose, the lips and the outline of the oval-shaped head, and then I colored in the olive-toned skin. The black hair was next, and as soon as I finished the precise waves... Come on! I thought, putting the paper aside. I didn’t get the part in the right place. It was still 10:23- I probably had enough time. I snatched a new sheet to draw on, and I made sure to take it slow while still going reasonably fast. You can’t speed up when you’re drawing- or at least not when it’s something as important as this. Soon I had the eyes done, and then the nose, and- Ugh. The color of the cheeks was not realistic. I was tempted to erase them, but that wouldn’t be respectful. In the last conversation I had with her, Angelica told me to never do that. Everything mattered- nothing had to be erased from a simple flaw. Nothing had to be thrown away, or crinkled up. You should be able to see your mistakes, to remember them. That way they would be harder to repeat. Then everything went wrong that afternoon, and part of me wishes I could erase that, too, even though she wouldn’t be back. But, once again, I needed to see my mistakes. I had only been drawing for a few months back then, but Angelica said I was a natural. She said that if I tried, I could draw her so realistically she’d want to keep the drawing forever. I took that as a challenge and spent a few hours working on it, but it was too hard. Angelica’s expectations were too high. I thought I could draw someone so beautiful, but it turned out I couldn’t. It was 10:45 now- just an hour and 15 minutes to make it up to her. I needed to work fast. Grabbing a piece of paper, I sketched her face. Her hair. Her neck, and the jewelry wrapped around it. Her shoulders. Her arms. It was 11:30- I might have taken it too slow. And the next thing to do was her hands, the part I struggled with most. The farthest I’ve ever gotten into drawing her. I wanted to rush this, so that I would have more time for the torso and the legs. But I knew I would mess up. So I took it sloooooowly, and even though it took me a full minute just to do her left thumb, it came out all right. Same with her pointer finger. And her middle finger. It took me seven minutes just to do a hand. This would be close. I switched to the other hand, and I did the pinky. The ring finger. The middle finger. The pointer finger. The... “Come ON!” I yelled. The thumb was all wrong, and the clock read 11:50. No way was I going to do this in time. I’m so sorry, I thought. Sorry I couldn’t do this for you. Tears welled up in my eyes as I headed for the door. Then another thing Angelica had told me surfaced in my mind. Never give up. I grabbed a sheet of paper and drew her head shape. It was oval-like, but it wasn’t that exact. I put in two eyes with irises that were way too huge too close to the top of her forehead, and her nose was really far down. Her lips weren’t big enough. Her hair was too thick and too black. Her shoulders were too wide. Her jewelry was missing. Her arms were too short. Her legs were too long. Her hands only had four fingers each. But even with all of those changes, I could still tell it was Angelica. It didn't need to be perfect. I didn't have to include everything. I'm sure Angelica still would've kept it forever. Going across the highway to get ice cream was the worst idea of my life, and I would probably never make a worse one. We weren’t allowed to cross roads that busy back then, and Angelica didn’t think it was the best thing to do. And it was her who got hit by a car. I’ve been trying to make it up to her ever since. And this was the best I could do. I raced downstairs and bolted outside, releasing my drawing and letting the wind blow it away. I had met my goal. That’s when I heard it. Fireworks. The new year had just started. And it looked like this would be the best one yet.


It’s in those moments that you realize that thing you associate around a person is built up with a series of moments you faced alongside that said being. You view a story in one angle, when another sees a completely different point of view as to what happened. There is no correct version to a story, just point of views that associates a person and their past which then creates a certain perception in their mind that, this is what happened. Points of views don’t actually really matter in a story if each different character experienced a sort of similar scenario, where they saw most of the same things and heard a relative amount of details in a conversation, then one might say it was a relatively similar experience. But what if three people saw three different versions of what happened that night and none of it was what actually happened? MAY- It was dark and gloomy, even though it was only 10 am on a supposed to be vibrant Saturday, rain was pouring down the roof and it almost seemed as if it may lead up to a storm. May had come home from collage for her break and was lying on the couch wrapped up in a blanket when she heard a knock on the door. Daren, she thought as she slowly crept near the door. There he was standing in the rain, handsome as ever. Daren was May’s twin Carla’s fiancée. Carla had gone on a no electronics retreat with her fancy modern day critic friends and this was the perfect opportunity for May to get her way. The two had an ongoing rivalry since they were little. Carla would always break promises she made to May and deny that she ever did. It got even more out of hand when Carla started accusing May of things she’s never done. More the conflict grew, they seemed to slowly drift apart. Daren always had a hard time telling the sisters apart. They were identical, both had washed up blonde hair and were tall and slim, almost the same size and had matching black eyes. The only thing that was different is that Carla had a butterfly tattoo and May had a flower tattoo, both near their ankles, ones they had gotten before the whole rivalry began. But no one had ever noticed the tattoos, cause since then the girls always wore socks or shoes that covered their tattoos and the memories that was bound with them. May opened the door and let Daren in. Daren let out a sexy smile and pulled May closer to him. Smirking at her he placed his lips on her neck. ‘why is he even marrying her if he doesn’t even know to tell us apart’ May thought as Daren’s lips trailed further down her neck and kissed her shoulder. May felt as if it were only her and Daren in the whole world. She wanted him all to herself. She wouldn’t even care if anyone saw her. Also, it wasn’t like anyone was going to see her, she was all alone in the house. Oh, how wrong she was! CARLA- She watched from behind the corner of the wall that separated the living room and the stairway. She watched as Daren kissed May, ‘that bitch’, she thought to herself. She knew that when May had so eagerly bid her goodbye, something like this was going to happen. So she had bailed on her retreat halfway and come home to THIS! Suddenly Daren stopped kissing May. She was whispering something in his ear and he nodded. She walked away. Probably by the looks of it to the kitchen. Should I go to him, or should I stay... thought Carla. Then from the corner of her eye she saw May climb up the stairs that went through the kitchen and up to her room. If she slid in now Daren wouldn’t notice. ‘he can’t even notice that he’s kissing the wrong girl’ Carla scoffed. Just as she started to climb down the stairs, she saw May coming back. Quickly she hid again. DAREN- Carla came back down almost as soon as she’d gone up. Didn’t she say she was going go washup before we would catch the train to the town? She was dressed completely different, in a black top and jeans with boots. How on earth did she change so quickly... whatever, thought Daren. He never really understood girls. Carla came up to him and slid her hands around his waist... “hey babe ready to go?” asked Daren “go where?” answered Carla. Daren frowned, was she joking? Carla never joked. “You are joking right?” he smiled, Carla laughed. “Of cause silly... lets go” Daren smiled, Carla was making jokes again, does that mean he had forgiven her? When she called and told him that she was going to bail on the electronic-free trip he was so relived. And then she had invited him over. Things were going back to normal. “before we go, I need to go up and quickly get my bag” said Carla. Daren nodded. “sure” he said. He watched as Carla disappear up the stairs. Just as she disappeared, she came back down. Wait, no, that was May. “hey May, I didn’t know you were going to be here? Your sister said it was just her alone...” MAY- Hold on now did he say May? Oh my god...is Carla here? But that cant be...wait, SHE KNOWS!! Oh my god she knows!!! But he doesn’t...so that’s a good thing, Right? She smiled. Be cool! “oh ya, I just came to get some stuff” she blurted out. Good thing Daren didn’t notice that she had nothing in her hands... even a bag... great, her bag was upstairs. “so, where are headed to?” he asked. Oh right, she was dressed to go out with HIM! “I’m going out with a friend...” she said. When did Carla get here? that’s all she could think of. She was here all this time? She had heard someone near her bedroom but thought it was just the neighbors. The walls were pretty thin. Ok so, that had to be Carla. “your sister just went up to get her bag...” said Daren. Ok so that definitely was Carla. Maybe she didn’t know, maybe she had gotten here now? Nevertheless, May knew she had to get out of here before her sister caught her. She was about to go when she remembered her bag was still in her room. “I’m just going to go grab my bag and then I’ll be out of here” she said. As she was going to go up the stairs, she saw Carla coming down... she slipped into the kitchen to avoid her. CARLA- “hey May, I didn’t know you were going to be here? Your sister said it was just her alone” said Daren. May was dressed in a white crop top and a skirt with her rain boots on. Wasn’t she wearing a black top and jeans? Hold on he said May, so he recognized her? He doesn’t even sound surprised. Wait, why is he referring to me AND her. “your sister just went up to get her bag...” said Daren. WHAT BAG??? I’m here...! Carla wanted to scream. Why does May look confused? Maybe it’s part of their plan to you know, acknowledge that they know I’m here. But May looks sincerely confused and Daren has always been so oblivious. Carla knew for a fact that Daren would never team up with May and that her sister isn’t THAT cruel. What was happening here? May said something about going to grab her bag and disappeared. But just as soon as she disappeared, she was back...wearing the black top and jeans!!! What was with the outfit swopping? “Hey babe, what took you so long? And did you know your sister is here?” asked Daren. What on earth was actually going on here? Carla was ready to think that she was being played when something caught her eye. From the place she was hiding she could see a shadow in the kitchen. Her heart started to beat rapidly. She slowly crept keeping one eye towards the living room. The shadow moved into the light and a scream froze in Carla’s throat. In the kitchen was MAY!!! May stood there in her white top and skirt. Carla felt faint. Even though she tried to creep into the kitchen slowly her foot bumped on the table and something made a small sound and May turned and they locked eyes. MAY- As she tried to slowly sneak up to her room without bumping into her sister, something in the kitchen made a noise and she turned to see CARLA!! Wait what??? Carla was here and there? They locked eyes. “What...who...you?” they said at the same time. Carla was as surprised as she was. “What the hell is happening here?” asked May. A voice came from the living room. Of cause, May wasn’t surprised to see the person there before, as she thought it was Carla. But Carla was HERE! They both looked into the living room at the same time. There she was, in a black top and jeans. She had long washed up blonde hair and black eyes. She looked EXACTLY like Carla and May. No, correction, she was IDENTICAL to Carla and May. The two of them let out a shriek which then caught Daren’s attention. He first looked at the girl in front of him and then his eyes widened when he saw May and Carla. That made the other girl lock eyes with the two sisters. She smiled. May walked towards the living room and Carla followed her. “What the hell is going on here?” asked Daren. He couldn’t believe his eyes, in front of him stood May and Carla AND another girl who looked exactly like the other two. The other girl smiled. “I came here to visit ma, she recently contacted me. She called to tell me that grandma had passed away and that they needed to sort out her will. And of cause, I met Daren here at the coffee shop a month ago and thought it might be fun to mess around with him a bit” she laughed. From the looks of the three people standing in the living room, they were still shell shocked and confused. How does grandma connect with her? the two sisters thought. They looked at each other at the same time. “no...” they whispered, but how? Before they could answer that question the girl beat them to it. “I’m Dalia, I’m your triplet”


Time is a fragile concept. One should know that it is easily broken, given enough external pressure. The perception of time that humans have is one that is inherently flawed, given that time loops are inevitable. The Faes love to trick us into thinking that they don’t exist, only to give us a true taste of the magnitude the closed loops they can produce. The Fae that has trapped me in one, for example, loops the same second over and over, while keeping me moving forwards. As much as I’d like to say that it’s annoying, I can’t. Ever since I got into my time loop, I have skyrocketed in my creativity and productivity, given the removed sense of urgency. The Fae originally put me in this loop to teach me a lesson and force me to understand why my time on Earth is important, but, in turn, has made me realize that I much prefer the disconnected reality that I have been imprisoned in. Like a hostage growing attached to the room they are trapped in. That simile only really works in context if you don’t think about it, since I’m not trapped physically, only temporally. The Faes seem to be everywhere in this world, we just normally can’t perceive them. They really like to mess with us, probably because we are the most arrogant and least timely intelligent creatures, which I can’t argue with. The only issue in their plans to teach us a lesson is that most everyone that I know and probably that you know would probably benefit from the lack of fearing the clock ticking down. They only target the particularly problematic humans, the ones who weigh the rest of society down. I mean hey, I can’t really complain. I got this free ticket to a never ending vacation with basically free reign over my own actions, no strings attached. Well, besides the occasional times where the Fae imprisoning me, which I believe is named Psi, drops in for the scheduled lecture. I say scheduled, but time doesn’t really matter in this context. Another good part about this is that I can choose if I want to go to sleep or not. It’s not like a switch or anything, but I have a lot more control over it than I could really say for my normal self. For example, I can stay up for days on end, or at least days of time in the context of the normal day night cycle. It’s constantly 7:12 P.M., so there’s not really much cue to when it would normally be night or day. Despite that, I have still been able to keep track of the days, for the most part. Even though all of my devices that I would normally use for timekeeping are perpetually at 7:12, that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t work anymore. Sure, the timekeeping I do is probably more akin to just saying that this is the next day and moving on, but from random inferences and when I’ve craved food, I can somewhat questionably say that it’s been about a month and a half, or maybe a bit more? There’s not too much reliability to my claim of the time. Oh, would you look at that. Psi is here. Perfect timing, or what I think is perfect timing. I can’t really be certain. I sure do wonder what she came all the way here for. “I swear, it’s like this whole imprisonment thing is going completely over your head!” What a shocker. She’s lecturing me. I guess it couldn’t hurt to try to defend myself for once. “Well, to be fair, you took a human that was already confirmed to have no friends, family, no real interests, and the textbook definition of a NEET. Hell, I even like reading manga. How much more do I have to say to let you know that this is just heaven for me?” Well, it seems that did the trick. She’s utterly speechless now. I don’t think she knew I could even talk, from the amount of not talking I have been doing. To be fair, I have just been silently taking her punishment for the past however long, and haven’t really questioned it. Hearing people getting abducted by Faes was always something that I halfheartedly hoped would happen to me, for the reasons stated above. “W-Wow... I’m surprised I didn’t realize sooner, you really are pathetic. I don’t know if I should be letting you go out of pity, or the opposite at this point. What have you even been doing here all this time? I’ve barely seen you do anything besides just sit at that desk all day! You haven’t even talked to me once! You are the only person I’ve ever met that has just taken the punishment so upfront and nonchalantly, what gives?!” Wow, I never knew that Faes have a semblance of remorse. She asks, and she shall receive. “How about you use your eyes and look dumbass. I’ve been reading my huge backlog of books that I wanted to read, but got sidetracked before reading. I also started writing a bit, but that’s more of a side project that doesn’t concern you.” She seems a bit dumbfounded, unfitting of a Fae. I thought Faes could understand and communicate with humans perfectly. I guess I was wrong. I continue, “The reason why I never decided to talk to you in the first place was partially because I was afraid of talking back to you, and partially because I just accepted this to be my new life.” Her face conveyed that of wonder, confusion, and concern, all at the same time. It was like her face was a game show wheel being spun around, slowing into a more manageable expression. She finally spoke up, “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you just said that you wanted this to happen? Humans understand that this is happening to them? We thought that the methods we use are untraceable unless a temporal anomaly radar gets implemented into the arsenal of science.” “Fair point. There’s absolutely no scientific or public proof beyond that of a conspiracy. I don’t really believe in any of those wacky theories, but I was always just thinking that I would like to be taken away from my current life, and taken to a world with no one else. That’s the third reason I never talked to you, because I wanted this time loop to be me and me alone.” The Fae looked like she was going to say something, but pulled a distraught look out before stopping herself. I can’t blame her, she just learned how pathetic and lowly I really am, so she probably will end up releasing me from this loop soon enough. That’s kind of the reason that I never wanted to speak up to Psi, because then she would know that this is the best my life has been. She would learn of my awful life, and conclude that the best course of punishment would be putting me back into my normal, awful life. I guess I should ask her something too. “So, what’s your next move? If my intuition is correct, you’ll put me back in normal time, and consider it the ultimate punishment.” Psi looked around the room, changing expressions constantly. “Well? Am I right? Can I collect my prize at the door? Or would that be too nice of a gesture?” Psi finally broke the seal of her lips. “I don’t know what to say, OK?! I am meant to serve as one of the Faes, the protectors of society among all races and species. I want to keep your society free of the types of people that don’t contribute. That said, I’ve never been disheartened of my goal by one of my prisoners. If I’m being honest, I kind of want to do some irrational things. Hold a moment, I need to talk to my supervisors.” Before I could even get a response out, Psi rushed away, looking like she was on the brink of tears. Was that my fault? I could ponder it, but I feel like there would be no point. After Psi comes back in a bit, I’ll probably be forced back into that awful society that she “protects” or whatever. A few perceived days go by, and Psi is nowhere to be seen, sort of unusual. Normally she is back every other day, but she hasn’t showed up for at least two meetings now. I kind of am starting to feel guilt now. I hope she didn’t get fired or killed or whatever Faes do with bad Faes, all because she wanted to do whatever those “irrational things” were. Eh, pondering is fun and all, but overall kinda boring. I guess I’ll just keep reading to pass the time, and maybe take one of my weekly naps. In the middle of my nap, Psi came to me and woke me up. I almost thought it was a dream or something, because of the absurdity of a Fae waking me up. She looked a bit serious waking me up, so I got up pretty quickly. After I got up, she immediately started speaking. “Well, I took it up with the higher Faes, and they decided that I have clearance to do what I believe would help society the most.” Weird way of starting a conversation, but I guess that’s fine, with the way we ended the last meeting. “So? I thought your way of punishing me was gonna be just putting me back, is it not?” “It certainly is on the table, but I feel like you’ve drawn the short end of the stick all of your life, so I feel like a decision for you is in order.” “OK, I guess? You really aren’t explaining yourself too well, but I guess I can follow.” “You don’t need to understand much. Just choose your outcome. That’s all there is to this situation.” She explained. “You can either choose to go back to the normal time flow, or be my prisoner forever.. If you go back to the normal time flow, you will never see me again, and your life will be reverted to the way it was before you ever came into this time loop.” “So the bad option, got it.” “But, if you would choose to be my prisoner, you would never be able to leave again, even if you decide to think otherwise later on.” Sounds like a pretty cushy deal to me. I don’t need any layer of uncertainty getting in the way when deciding the outcome of my life. “Yeah OK I choose to be your prisoner, because anything is better than going back to my old life. Even listening to the whining of a little brat for the rest of my life.” “I’ll ignore that last bit, and ask you once again: Do you choose to live here forever, without any chance of going back?” “Without a doubt, because there’s at least one thing that I can see here that I can’t get anywhere else.” “And that would be?” “A friend.


Ever since man invented the wheel the animal kingdom had a hard time adjusting When cars were invented animals had to learn to avoid them...many failed. Then in the spring of 1985 a squirrel named Bert Beckerman got an idea He would make this killer of all animals - the most extreme sport of all time Here is how it goes Bert would mark a line in the road where the car would pass through. He would then draw a line for the starting point. When the car would pass through the first line, you would know when to start. The quickest you can get to the other side without being squashed was the time to beat. If you got hit or stopped halfway you lost Bert cleverly called the sport “Running” and started telling everyone First it was just Squirrels but then Opossums, Raccoons even Deer started playing Some would make it across, and some, well some wouldn’t make it past the first tire. But it seemed everyone wanted to at least try Running and the sport took off Bert was at the head of it all. He made “official races” on Saturday afternoons, the crowds would form on both sides of the road, and the lines were painted in white. When the spotter saw a car coming down the road he would signal and the crowd would duck, once the car got passed the first line the racer would start running. Now most Runners used the 25 foot rule, 25 feet in between the lines, this way you have enough time to make it across but not enough time to mess up. Bert was different; being the pioneer of the sport he always tried to push the limits. He was the face of Running and let’s just say Bert was Bert’s worst enemy. Being in the spotlight, Bert could have his pick of the ladies, they would line up to see him train, flock to his appearances and would always fill the crowd to see him race. Burt knew it too and would show off at any chance he could. After each win, he would run into the crowd and give one lucky lady a kiss on the cheek They would cheer so loud you could hear it for miles. Burt completed his 23 foot run in mid July As he ran out to the crowd for the kiss one particular girl caught his eye Her name was Nancy Higgins and she was one of the most beautiful squirrels around As soon as their eyes met it was love at first site. Burt did everything he could to make that kiss land on only one girl’s cheek. And from that day forward every kiss from Burt was saved for Nancy It wasn’t long until Nancy Higgins became Mrs. Nancy Beckerman In the prime of his career Bert was not only the leader in the sport he created but a husband to an amazing wife. After a short while Bert became a father too James Joseph Beckerman (Jimmy for short) was born during the finals of the Running season. Bert was planning on beating his record of 23 feet by attempting a 21 foot run. No animal had survived in the past but Bert was determined. The date was set and the preparations were underway. On the day of the run Jimmy and Nancy were stationed right in the front of the crowd. Jimmy was only a baby then sleeping in his mother’s arms. Even the noise of the crowd didn’t wake him. They called Burt’s name up to the line and the crowd cheered. As Burt stood at the starting line and a squirrel walked up to him and said “ Could you do 20?” And without even thinking about it the word that came out of Burt’s mouth was “Yes” “Move the line up!” Said the squirrel “He’s going for 20!” The crowd cheered even louder “20! 20! 20!” Nancy was horrified but there was nothing she could do The line was set and the crowd stood back under the brush. Bert stepped up to the street and a drip of sweat slowly made its way down his face. His eyes focused on the horizon as a car quickly came near Burt takes a deep breath and one last look at Nancy and Jimmy in the crowd The car hits the mark and Burt is off and running but it’s coming too fast The driver is unaware of anything happening and hits the gas to save time on his commute Burt only gets halfway across when he realizes he can’t make it and he quickly tries to turn around The crowd gasps as Nancy covers Jimmy’s already closed eyes The driver notices the squirrel and tries to stop but it’s too late. Bert was buried in the grass by the spot where the accident occurred. The Running world was rocked, having lost their creator and face of the sport. Running groups disbanded and deemed too dangerous. Sponsorships where pulled and the sport of running died right along side of Bert. Nancy vowed to never tell Jimmy about Running or what really happened to his father. She packed up all of Bert’s awards, posters and trophies and put them into the attic and told Jimmy that Bert had gone away and would not be returning. Nancy wanted to make sure he knew nothing about Running because she couldn’t bear to lose another loved one to the sport but years went by and Jimmy grew up quick. The newspaper article on Running making a comeback landed on Nancy’s doorstep in June. Turns out a few Deer in Connecticut started a club and vowed to bring the sport back. Nancy was horrified at this because she knew eventually Bert’s legacy would be revealed to her son. She quickly scooped up the paper and threw it right out. Nancy wanted to do everything she could to keep Jimmy away. It wasn’t until mid July when Jimmy and his friends were playing in the woods did they come upon a campsite. The man at the campsite was fast asleep but in front of him was a portable TV. The squirrel kids crept up towards the TV and started to watch. “The number of road kill has doubled since summer started, it seems the animals are just trying to get run-over. The numbers haven’t been this high since the 80’s. Here is footage obtained from a highway cam in New York” “Why are they doing that?” asked Jimmy “My brother said its called running or something. Some crazy new sport, I bet you’d be good at that” said Jimmy’s friend “You know I probably would..” thought Jimmy “ I’m faster than any of those animals” and he was. The man slowly woke up and the animals scatter. A few days later Jimmy and his friends were kicking around a nut when one of the boys accidentally hit it towards the street. “I’ll get it!” said Jimmy as he ran up to the pavement. A car flew past him and the wind almost knocked him of his feet. “Don’t ever go in the road” he can hear his mother saying. “Actually.. maybe I shouldn’t” he said nervously to his friends. “Come on Jimmy, it’s like that running sport, you said you’d be good at it!” He stepped up to the street and watched as another car came speeding past. Starting to shake Jimmy looks back and sees his group of friends cheering him on. “Jimmy! Jimmy!” He sees a car coming up on the horizon, he hesitates for a second as the car get’s closer. “Go!” one of the boys yells and Jimmy was off. The other kids had never seen someone run as fast as he did, not only did he run across one side of the road but he managed to continue to the other side nearly missing a southbound car. When he got to the end of the street Jimmy kept on running. It wasn’t until a mighty oak tree put the brakes on him. Jimmy’s heart was pounding; he had a rush in his body that he had never felt before. “This is what the runners must feel like” he thought in between breaths “I could do this! I can be a runner!” He came home with a few scratches and Nancy asked what had happened. Jimmy told her about his run and Nancy’s heart dropped. “Get to your room and never come out!” She yelled. “But Mom why?” “ Get to your room! Don’t ever go near a street again!” Jimmy ran to his room and started to cry. He didn’t understand why his mother had yelled at him as she did. He didn’t understand what was so bad when he had felt so good afterwards. Nancy laid down a strict punishment to Jimmy but never told him the reasons behind it. Weeks past and Jimmy found himself wanting that rush more and more. Rain came down hard the next day which forced Jimmy inside. After a few meaningless activities he decided to explore his home. First he hit the basement, flashlight and all. Under a few boxes he found a pair of sneakers labeled “Bert” he thought nothing of it. He then snuck up into the attic. With flashlight in hand Jimmy started going through old boxes and chests that were now covered in dust. He was a pirate and he looking for his gold. One box stood out, it was large and had a tiny heart drawn on the top. Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. He started pulling out picture after picture, trophy after trophy, articles about Bert Bekerman being the fastest runner of all time. The he found a video tape that was labeled “20 foot run” it was the news cast of the race and he quickly put into the tv nearby and hit play. This was the first time Jimmy saw Bert. His jaw dropped. The newscast had a reel of Bert at his best, sliding by tires, leaving dust clouds as he would take off, his famous decent into the crowd after each victory. Then the beginning of Bert’s last race came on, Jimmy felt that rush in his belly again. It wasn’t until the light went on that Jimmy realized his mom was standing right there. “What are you doing Jimmy? Put that down! Turn that off!” “But Mom! I can do that! I’m really fast, I could be a champion just like dad!” “Don’t ever say that!” His mom yelled “You will never be like your father! You will never be a runner! Never!” Jimmy ran out of the room and Nancy gathered up the contents of the box and packed them onto her back. She came downstairs and walked out of the house. As soon as he hit his bed the tears flowed from his eyes. He had seen his father for the first time, in the sport he created. He had seen the glory and he had seen the fame. All he could think about now was how he wanted to be just like dad. It was September when Jimmy came upon a flyer in the woods. It talked about a local Running competition in October. All animals were invited to participate and the grand prize was huge. Jimmy knew it was wrong, he knew he would get in trouble if he was to participate but he also knew he’d win. He took the flyer, brought it home, filled out the information and put it in the mail on the way to school the next morning. He was determined. The day of the race was coming up fast and Jimmy knew he would need practice. He would walk away from his friends and Run, he would sneak out at night and Run. He would attempt to Run whenever he could get out of site of anyone. He was good at it, damn good. The day of the race the animals gathered. There was many different kinds, all thinking they were the best. The line was set and one by one the animals would attempt the 25 foot Run. Some made it through, some stopped in the middle and one attempt finished with an arm getting stuck under the last tire but the animal was still alive. They called Jimmy’s name. The announcer stopped when he read the last name. “ Is this possibly the son of Bert?” All eyes zoomed in on Jimmy. It was at this moment that Nancy, while flipping through the channels, saw her son on a local broadcast. “Noooo!” She screamed and ran out of the house towards the competition “Is that Bert’s kid?” “Oh my god is it?” the crowd continued to say An old squirrel walked up to Jimmy. “Are you really Bert’s son?” he said “Yes sir” Said Jimmy “Are you here to break your dad’s record?” Said the old Squirrel It was at that moment that the words “yes” came out of Jimmy’s mouth. Jimmy didn’t recall putting the words there but that is what came out. “Move the line up!” Yelled the old squirrel “This is the son of Bert Bekhiman the greatest Runner of all time” The workers ran to the line and brought it forward “Good luck” said the old man as he walked away from the street. “Runner Ready!” Everything had happened so fast that Jimmy couldn’t even think about the dangers of what he had just done. He stepped up to the street and watched as cars zipped past him. “Runner set!” Jimmy could hear in the distance a familiar voice “Jimmy no!” That feeling hit his stomach again and a drip of sweat slowly made its way down his face “Runner go!” Jimmy saw the car hit the line and he knew it was now or never. He began to run but his little foot slipped on the dirt costing him seconds of time. Jimmy got passed the first tire and in an attempt to reach the second he jumped. The crowd gasped, Nancy finally makes it to the street. Jimmy’s lifeless body rolls onto the median, his tail still sitting where the tire made contact. “Nooooo!” Nancy yelled as the crowd went silent. Visions of Bert rushed through her head as she ran to the street to get her son. The crowd bows their heads. Nancy makes it up to her son and then falls to her knees. Jimmy picks his head up from the grass and whispers “Mommy?” “Yes Jimmy! It’s me!” Nancy cries. Jimmy’s looks into Nancy’s eyes and says... “I did it” The tears flowed from Nancy’s face as she wrapped her arms around her son “You did Jimmy, You did” Once the crowd realized he was alive they cheered so loud you could hear it for miles. Still to this day Jimmy’s 20 foot run has never been beaten. Even you may come upon animals attempting to break the record. Out of nowhere they dash in front of your car and don’t give you time to react. Just stay straight and don’t hit the gas, you may be helping the next star of the most extreme sport in the animal kingdom - Running.


The steaming kettle whistled on the stovetop and Mallory shuttered, jumping at the sudden sound breaking the noise barrier in her kitchen. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The large wall clock clanged back and forth amongst the silence in her apartment, the anxiety in her chest beating with each sounding. It felt as if the ticks and tocks were inside of her heart. However, what was truly in her heart was something much deeper. A secret. Mallory was pregnant. She didn't understand: how could something that so many people find exciting become her own tragedy? She was barely even twenty-two, and she was in this alone. Her boyfriend left the second the suspicion even arose. He didn't even wait around for her to take a test. He wasn't there by her side when she found out. He didn’t even really know. In fact, nobody knew. That was, yet, anyway. She had invited her three closest friends to come over for dinner to finally break her three-month silence As she stood in her kitchen preparing her best fettuccine alfredo, she couldn't help but reach down and touch her stomach. Life. A new one. One that wasn't tainted by the troubles of the world. One that didn’t even know if they were a boy or a girl yet. One that knew nothing but the blissful warmth and quiet of the womb. Mallory had been imagining this conversation all week, planning out what to say, who to make eye contact with first, what syllables to enunciate, and whether she should let her tears out or fake a smile as always. She knew she wasn’t showing yet, but mentally her bump felt huge. She felt like a balloon walking around, wearing a sign that screamed “Look at me! I got knocked up!” She was embarrassed, honestly. How was she supposed to look at three people she’d known since she was fourteen and tell them what she’d let happen? Should she make a joke? “So, I guess you’re all wondering why I’ve been refusing drinks, huh?” No. That’s not the way to introduce a child’s conception. Should she start a game of charades? “Two words. I’m pregnant.” No. She never was good at that game. Jenna would probably guess ‘I’m fat and turn the night into a pep talk for the wrong topic. No matter what form of announcement Mallory thought of, there always seemed to be an alternative outcome. The only effective thing she felt she could do is just say it out loud, verbatim, and direct. “I’m three months pregnant.” She turned around and looked herself in the eye using her magnetic fridge mirror. “I’m three months pregnant.”, she repeated. Over and over again, Mallory said the four words until her voice didn’t even sound like her own anymore. Over and over until she didn’t even recognize the pair of eyes staring back at her. The same pair of eyes that her child would inherit. The same pair of eyes that she would look into once again in six months, but hopefully that time she’d see love and joy inside of them instead of pain and fear. The oven dinged and she walked back over to it. Wait, was she even allowed to use the oven? Everything felt wrong. Everything felt dangerous. She didn’t know how she would support the new life inside of her, but she knew that she wanted to protect it. As she put on her oven mitt, she caught herself imagining it was a bathing mitt just like the one she would be using in six short months to cleanse the soft and perfect flesh of her newborn. It was little moments like those that made Mallory smile to imagine, but every time she found herself feeling the slightest excitement about becoming a mother, she forced herself to remember her circumstance. Then, she’d frown and her eyes would well up with tears again. The alfredo was done and now all that was left was to wait for her friends to let her know they were on the way so she could prepare fresh salads for them all. They were carpooling. Mallory loved carpooling, riding around with her friends all night, and singing at the top of their lungs with their sunroof open. Just another thing that was coming to an end. She knew she’d never experience a night like that again after becoming a single mother. How could she? She had no help lined up, no family that would be willing to babysit for her. She’d be lucky to even find enough time to be able to work a job. It was moments like these that made her regret everything, even getting into a relationship with Mark at all, let alone falling pregnant with his child, full of knowledge that he had no intentions of parenting them. At least it wasn’t twins, like Olivia and Allen. The time was five twelve, and everyone was scheduled to arrive around the five thirty mark. Mallory made her way to the counter and picked up her phone. No texts from anyone saying they were on the way. Did they already know she was pregnant? Was the abandonment already starting? She couldn’t and wouldn't even blame them. She honestly had no plans of bothering them with any requests for help after she gave birth anyway. She wanted the group of twenty-somethings to enjoy their youth while they could. After all, they weren’t the ones who went out and created a new life--she was. Mallory was torn between messaging them and asking about their ETA and leaving them alone. If they came, they came, and if not, hey, she still wouldn’t be alone. She let three more minutes pass and finally picked up the phone again. As she sat down on the couch she decided on her strategy. A call, she thought, would ease her anxieties more. Less waiting for a response, plus she’d be able to hear the tone of the voice she was speaking to. Allen was probably the driver and Jenna always gave calm responses, so the decision of who to call fell onto Olivia. She picked up on the second ring. “Yeah! We’re two blocks away and traffic is pretty slow, so we should actually arrive in about five minutes if coming a little early is okay!”. Mallory told her that was ‘perfect’, even though right now the concept of perfect felt so foreign to her, and thanked them all again over the phone for agreeing to come. Then, she hung up and held her stomach as she walked back into the kitchen to prepare their salads. She looked at the clock one more time and regained awareness of the sound of the hands. Five seventeen. She focused on her breathing and heartbeat as she cut up tomatoes. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.


[TW: fictional book burning] If a ticking bomb under the table propels a plot forward, so too will a deadline on the wall spur the creation of literary excellence, Keith Highfield thought as he signed the death warrant of the Highfield Library. The intricate interplay between danger and creativity is a delicate balancing act. After The Hobbit was published, J. R. R. Tolkien spent 15 years writing the Lord of the Rings. Keith would give himself the same amount of time to complete his own novel, High Tower. At the offices of his family’s legal firm, Levi & Strauss, Keith signed the contract on the bottom line: If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published a New York Times Bestselling book by November 30th, 2023, The Highfield Library will be dissolved. The next day at the library, he peered into the antique mirror hanging next to the notice. He saw rapidly graying eyebrows, and a once handsome jawline sagging into the jowls of middle-age. “What’s that sign?” a young woman asked. In her bare feet she walked across the room’s thick carpet and studied the document. “2023?” she asked as if the date was so far into the future as to be science fiction. “A deadline, perhaps farther away than your age, Cassie.” She returned to slumping in a chair on the other side of the library, pulling out a thick paperback. Cassie was the only teen who visited this private library, the daughter of a professor who held family membership. Her father taught at the business school, which explained her interest in YA fantasy--an escape from the pressures at home. Everything about business was about achieving 'success'. Keith abhorred the field. If he could draw one of them into the arts, that would be a glorious victory. The sound of his book closed resonated through the room. “All good things must come to an end,” he announced. The title was proudly displayed: The Children of Húrin. Cassie lifted her eyes from the pages of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. “A writer must immerse themselves in works of greatness,” Keith said, his bushy eyebrows bouncing with joy. “Turambar just emerged victorious over the mighty dragon Glaurung...” Cassie looked perplexed. “The book is part of the Lord of the Rings..” Keith explained. “I think I’ve heard of that.”. “You should delve into it, starting from The Hobbit.” “Is it similar to Harry Potter?” “Harry Potter? A jejune book for children, or for adults who don’t read.” Cassie pondered her own age. Her mother regarded her as a child, despite the fact she didn’t feel that way herself. “But a writer must stay current.” Keith said. A teacher must stay positive to hold the attention of youth, a lesson he learned from years of lecturing. “The weighty prose of Tolkien would not sell today. The trick is to write with short sentences, as Raymond Carver taught us.” Cassie winced at the mention of Raymond Carver. The night before, at Writers Sharing Session, she read an excerpt of her short story, as she said the final sentence, “The orthodontist smiled,” from the back of the room Keith blurted out “Copyright infringement!” He claimed Raymond Carver used that sentence in his book Cathedral, written back in 1981. Now Cassie wondered how she could write anything at all with many sentences already copyrighted. Keith gave a talk of his own. He stood before the eight members of the Highfield Literary Society, and said, “In Raymond Carver’s novel Cathedral, the motif of the cathedral serves as a metaphorical sanctuary, symbolic of...” (Cassie’s mind wandered away, until she heard the unmistakable rise in pitch of a speaker nearing their conclusion) “...serving as a guidepost on our collective journey, reminding us to embrace the transformative power of human connection and understanding.” The room clapped politely. A ten-minute time limit and free drinks meant they were mostly still awake. That year, after learning about Raymond Carver, Keith had spent three months rewriting High Tower, transforming lengthy literary allegories into short declarative statements. He forged ahead and wrote another twenty chapters, plotting out character backgrounds, family trees and personal ambitions of the 13 point-of-view characters, one from each kingdom. At the same time, a New York based children's writer, recently employed on the staff of Clifford’s Puppy Days, an animated series aimed at toddlers, busied herself writing on her days off. In the distant future, a hundred American teenagers who speak as if they grew up in modern day West Virginia have a battle to the death in a reality TV program. A TV program remarkably similar to Survivor, except for a larger downside for the losers. 2009 On a spring afternoon at the Highfield Library, Keith Highfield looked up from Gravity’s Rainbow. With a successful year of writing under his belt, he wore an expression of pure contentment. “My book has been progressing well since I started using short sentences!” Cassie looked up from her book. “You mean like the Hunger Games?” “No. like the magnificent prose of Raymond Carver.” “The book you told us about last year? “ Cassie asked. “The only thing I remember is someone going to the orthodontist.” “-and I learned to eliminate every adverb, like Raymond Carver did.” “Adverbs? What exactly are those?” Cassie asked, winking. “Perfection is overrated. The Hunger Games is on the New York Times Bestseller List, you should take a look at it, Professor Highfield. 100 children fight to the death. What a plot!” Keith studied the book cover. Keith had 14 years left to write. Plenty of time to adapt to new trends. Once he jotted down the title, Cassie returned to reading this barn burner. In secret, Keith read the Hunger Games in the span of two hours and came to understand the allure of fast pacing. He soon found himself laboriously rewriting all thirty chapters of High Tower. Intricate stories of court banquets and jousts were rewritten into relatable stories of hunting foxes and cooking rabbits. Descriptions of kingdoms, political systems, and ancient lore became awkward conversations between characters who had no apparent reason to discuss such things. It was a masterpiece. 2010 Erika, an administrative assistant at a small British university in a distant suburb of London, was enamored with the characters of Twilight. Despite having never written before, she began to pen a romance based on the characters. She wanted to continue the excitement of the story, and perhaps entertain a handful of readers on a Twilight fan fiction site. Her story quickly spread in popularity through word of mouth. A publisher got into contact and made an offer. Due to copyright issues, she needed to change the characters’ names. Erika opened her word processor, and performed a find and replace. There were now 1,503 mentions of Anastasia Steele, and 3,734 of Christian Grey. Erika also had a fondness for writing with adverbs. “Christian Grey is very, very handsome...” Cassie said aloud in the Highfield Library, paraphrasing the book. “Excuse me?” Keith looked up from his John Updike novel. “Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear as she--“ “Enough,” Keith interrupted. Recollecting his composure, he studied the book’s cover. “50 shades of grey? That’s an odd title. Not very colorful.” Cassie ignored that and returned to reading her book. Keith thought it must be yet another cliche page turner marketed toward young women preoccupied with romance. That weekend, while browsing at Labyrinth Books, Keith noticed many young women buying books, but very few old men. He soon found himself reshaping the lead protagonist of High Tower, Mandolf, from being a kindly Professor of Magical Spells at Humshorn University, into being a younger sexually aggressive wizard (one who might have legal problems in future decades). High Tower’s plot structure also shifted from being a Hero’s Journey into that of being a Totally Unnecessary Moral Quandary. 2011 Keith watched Cassie walk across the thic carpet of the Highfield Library toward her usual chair. She was wearing shoes. She had become aware of the dust mites and microbes that lurk in old libraries. Yet, the library was still preferable to being at home with her parents, who constantly asked her about KPI and EBITDA and other meaningless acronyms of business school. As she took a book out of her bag, Keith asked, “What are you reading?” “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” “What is it about?” “It’s from Sweden.” “Is it?” Sweden is a country, not a plot. “And the author is dead,” Cassie added. “ Hmm... ” Keith thought about how to use this information. Despite his role as a Professor of Classics, he embraced adaptability. He could assume a Scandanvian pen name, one with diacritical dots above certain vöwels. However, he was unwilling to die to thrust his work into the esteed canon of literary history. He decided to let this trend pass him by. 2012 - 2021 During the next nine years of his residency at the Highfield Library, Keith would fully rewrite High Tower five times. Inspired by The Fault in Our Stars, he reworked his novel to have Eldenon, the young protégé of Mandolf, die at the halfway point. This involved cutting 170 pages, altering the result of three wars, and leaving a dozen plot threads hanging at the end of the book. He then took High Tower a step further, incorporating the plot devices of The Girl on the Train. Utilizing the opportunities given by an unreliable narrator, he added a final twist exposing Mandolf to have been unconnected to the main events of the novel, and to have been at home at his castle nursing a hangover during the important battles that determined the fate of Logarosia. After coming to know of the breakout success of Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng, Keith introduced a multi-ethnic cast into his Precambrian high fantasy world. And then, perusing Where the Crawdads Sing, he infused it with a rural American slang and sensibility. Finally, after a reluctant, belated reading of The Song of Ice and Fire--forced onto him by incessant chatter about the HBO miniseries (he didn’t watch television) -- he became a vocal advocate of George RR Martin. Keith tore up all the new revisions of High Tower he wrote after 2009, and returned to the original draft of his epic fantasy novel. A story told through multi-character third-person perspective, famly trees, weighty prose, rock solid world building, and the extensive branching of royal family trees. After finishing the last line of his edit, he sent a completed version to Harper Collins and awaited their response:. 2022 Keith looked out the window of the Highfield Library. From their sanctuary’s 2nd floor windows, Keith, Cassie, and the other members of the Highfield Literary Society had watched the events of the previous 14 years move past below them. Fashion trends came and went, selfie sticks appeared and disappeared; the sounds of domestic conflict, of faraway gunfire, the protest marches of the BLM movement, occasionally reverberated through the library’s reading room, but nothing touched the lives of those who sat there. A slight pain Keith felt in his toes, a pain he felt most acutely when he sat in the quiet library, gradually spread to the other joints of his body. A doctor introduced by the university clinic told him these were the symptoms of arthritis. He soon found himself needing to rely on medication to sleep through the night. After seeing that Keith Highfield was showing signs of depression, the university health system introduced him to, coerced him into joining perhaps more accurately, the Living With Pain (age 50+) support group. Keith hadn’t heard back from Harper Collins, and with his current health struggles, didn’t know if he had the energy to do a rewrite all over again. He looked up on the wall, “ If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published....by November 30th, 2023 ”. It felt as if life had moved on around him and left him in the same spot. Keith Highfield set up a meeting with Levi & Strauss to discuss the plan to dissolve the Highfield Library next year. 2023 Keith had sent the final draft of High Tower to twelve publishing houses. None had replied. He sat pondering his future, and the action he was planning to do that day. Cassie looked up from her trade paperback novel. The lines of her face were beaming with youthful mock disgust. “This new book by Colleen Hoover has wooden characters, flat dialogue, and cliche stereotypes. It’s sad how low the standards have dropped in fiction writing.” “Do I hear jealousy, that green-eyed monster which doth mock us?” Keith asked her. “To thine own self be true.” Cassie had learned a basket of Shakespeare quotes over the years from the odd characters who inhabited the library. “So true,” Keith said. “But I’m afraid the trends in literature are moving too fast for this old man. I haven’t had any responses to my book.” “Trends change,” Cassie said. “The only constant is change” Cassie also found herself quoting meaningless truisms as old people do. Maybe she had also given up on finding truly original thoughts, and found it easier to use someone’s else’s. “I haven’t been able to write for months,” Keith lamented. Being a teacher, he had never showed vulnerability to his students all these years. “Write what you know,” Cassie said encouragingly. “Thank you for your suggestion, but,” Keith pointed toward the 15-year-old notice on the wall: ( If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published...) “I hope the foreshadowing was sufficient.” Cassie got up and looked at the old notice. The date on it was today. Keith pulled himself from his chair, went over to the nearest bookshelf, and pulled a volume off the shelf. A cloud of dust swirled into the air. Inspired by Fahrenheit 751, Keith had intended to burn down the library, but fire safety regulations had shifted over the last fifteen years. The lawyers also cautioned him about the intricacies of the family trust structure. Keith had found a loophole. “There’s no better time...” Keith said. With renewed vigor, he grabbed an armful of books and rushed downstairs. Cassie rushed after him. Keith stood in front of the tributary of the Millstone River that ran behind the building, a small canal really, and proclaimed, “by the power invested in me, I declare the Highfield Library dissolved.” He threw the books in his arms into the canal. Keith had done his research. The books were biodegradable and would dissolve rapidly. “Are you allowed to do that?” Cassie asked. “Yes. It’s in my contract.” “Ok then.” Cassie watched him go up and down to the library, throwing armful after armful of books into the canal. After a while, she went back upstairs herself, sat in her usual spot, and opened Lessons in Chemistry on her Kindle. The other members of the library that day were also reading e-books. As Keith hurried taking arms full of dusty old books down the stairs, the receptionist smiled at Cassie. “It’s a good thing we’ve converted out inventory to ebooks.” When the last book was gone, Keith departed from the library without saying another word. The lawyers had told him, from the wording of the contract, he had the legal right to “dissolve” the books, but the property that housed the library itself, and its use as a gathering spot for readers, was guaranteed in perpetuity by the Highfield family trust, After Keith’s meltdown, life went on at the Highfield Library pretty much as it did before, minus the dusty books on the shelves, and the presence of Keith Highfield. 2024 Cassie felt a sense of growing loneliness. With fewer members visiting the library that year, to push aside the deathly quiet, she began writing. There was an idea she always had in the back of her mind. After releasing a successful teaser on WattPad, she received an advance from a publisher. It was to complete Genders of the Galaxy: a cozy SciFi harem romance set in a speculative Bangladesh, with seven genders competing for the attention of one General. Cassie’s novel appeared on the New York Times list of The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of 2024, described as cheeky yet compassionate, and ‘the shape of SciFi to come’. After dissolving the library, Keith Highfield had given up writing and turned his attention elsewhere. He became more active as a member of the Living With Pain support group and soon found himself curating the fake news streaming into their social media forum. Of the alternative therapies he had tried, only one had shown any effectiveness. He decided to put together a guidebook for the group, and after interviewing several of its members, finished it two weeks after he began. Having spent 15 years working on an epic fantasy novel, writing non-fiction came easily. Despite not having discussed the guidebook with anyone outside his support group, a publisher came into contact, and the next year, Higher Education - The Medical Marijuana Revolution at Princeton (with a foreword by Cassie Chowdhury), was published to critical acclaim and reached #1 on the New York Times non-fiction list, a spot it held for sixteen weeks.


Matilda was always the life of the party. She would be dancing and carrying on well past midnight, still having fun with the lampshade on her head, while Joe would have gone to bed around nine, maybe nine-thirty, ten the latest. When they went to the beach, she wanted to have sand castle contests with the rest of the beach people. She chased the little kids around playing in the water with them. The woman would lead a huge chain of people dancing on the sand creating a truly amazing vision. Joe was happy to bask in the sun far away from the other visitors. Matilda loved to attend the soccer, baseball, recitals that her nieces and nephews took part in, and made sure that everyone knew she was there. Joe avoided such events always looking for an excuse to slip away. Once, they had been watching a movie during a storm when there was a huge crash. A tree had fallen on part of the house. The response teams showed up, as did the local news station. Matilda was out there giving them a step by step description of what happened, while Joe, the construction worker was figuring out how to fix everything, the time and the cost. They were best friends, but Matilda wanted more. She loved him and wanted to be married. “Joe, maybe we should get married?” “Maybe,” was all he said and then shrugged his shoulders. He could read the disappointment on her face. “It’s fun just to be friends,” he always said. “I guess so,” she said. But, her heart was ready to break. They had met in the strangest way. Matilda’s favourite Aunt Tracy had taken the young woman shopping, for lunch and then a stroll around the park. The two truly enjoyed each other’s company and often spent time together. Aunt Tracy had bought a house in the new subdivision and they were coming back from one of their fun days when she suggested they go and check on the progress of the building. “Sounds like a great time,” said Matilda. She was always up for whatever adventure her cherished Aunt suggested. So, the two stopped by and Aunt Tracy and Matilda who was twenty-one at the time, went to the building. The foreman, Chuck saw them and smiled. “Can I help you?” “Sure can,” said Aunt Tracy. “I bought this house and was wondering how the progress was coming along?” “Would you like a tour?” “That would be great.” So, Chuck took them around the half finished place and introduced them to all of the workers. One of the construction guys was Joe. He nodded their way and continued to work. It was about two weeks later, when Joe walked in a restaurant. He saw Matilda there working as a waitress at her summer job. He took a booth and smiled. “Hello, what can I get you?” “A burger and fries and a coke.” “Okay, it’ll be about ten minutes.” He nodded his head. A few minutes later, she arrived with his food. “One burger with fries and a coke.” “I guess you don’t remember me?” She looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. “No, I don’t think we’ve met unless you go to the same college I do. It is a big school and there are lots of students.” “I am a high school dropout. I work construction. You came by the site a couple of weeks ago with your Aunt or mother.” “I was at a construction site about two weeks ago. It is the new subdivision called Seven Acres.” “I know, I was one of the workers.” “Oh, okay, you guys are doing a great job. My Aunt Tracy was really pleased.” “Thanks. Tell your Aunt Tracy that the house is in good hands. Joe is taking care of business.” “Okay, I will. I have to go now. Enjoy your meal. What did you say your name was again?” “It’s Joe and you are Matilda.” She was stunned that he knew her name. It was a week later and Matilda was driving through the new subdivision and stopped at the house. She hesitated to go in and then knew that she had to and did just that. “Can I help you?” Chuck was there. “Hi, I was here with my aunt a few weeks ago and really liked these houses. I was thinking of maybe investing in one.” “Sure, you will have to take that up with head office. I don’t handle that end of things, I just build them.” “That’s fine,” said Matilda. Just then, Joe showed up and stopped. “Hi, Matilda, how are you?” “I am good. Hi, uhm,” she hesitated because the poor girl had forgotten his name. “It’s Joe,” he smiled and she almost melted. “Right, Joe, I saw you the other day in the restaurant. You ordered a burger and fries and a coke.” “You have a really good memory, sort of.” He left. “Thanks, I have to go now.” A few days later, he showed up in the restaurant again and she was just finishing her shift. “Can I give you a lift home?” “Sure, that would be nice. It will save me taking the bus or calling for a ride.” He drove her home and all the way there they shared small talk. I am so nervous. Why? Asked Matilda. Matilda who had sprung out of cakes wearing her bathing suit, had run down the street naked on a dare, had run up and given the principal a kiss while he addressed the student body, was not the shy type. She was voted by her high school peers as the one student who would have no problem greeting the aliens if they ever landed on the planet. He started to go to the restaurant and drove her home a few times. “Hey, we can be friends if you want,” said Joe shyly. And, they became friends. They went to parties and she would talk up a storm, while he just sat there nursing a beer. They introduced one another to friends and family, telling everyone that they were not dating. They had never been on an official date, but just hung out. This had been going on for three years and Matilda made him laugh. In return, Joe was steady as a rock. He went to work everyday and was very quiet, reserved. They were quite opposites. He drank beer and she rarely touched alcohol. She was a career student, he had quit school at the age fo sixteen. He could build anything and she had a problem swinging a hammer. One day, they were coming home from a party. “So, Joe can I ask you a question?” “Sure can, you can ask any question any time.” “Do you have feelings for me?” Joe turned red. “Well, you are a good friend. We’ve had lots of fun in the past few years.” “I want more than just friends, Joe. I want a relationship. I love you.” She waited for it to be returned, but he went silent. He dropped her off and left. Matilda’s heart was broken. “Maybe, it’s best since we are so different. I am an extrovert and he is an introvert.” A couple of days later, there was a knock on the door. Matilda opened it and it was Joe with flowers and a ring. He got down on one knee. “I love you too, Matilda, will you marry me?” The young girl was so overcome with emotions that she just melted. And, that was how two people, one an extravert and the other an introvert ended up more than just friends.


I was not a happy woman, my friend Penny had brought me here to this cold and damp castle. All because it was haunted. “We might see a ghost, “ I’d been told It’s not that I didn’t believe in ghosts, it's just I had no desire to see one. And this castle was too cold despite having a warm sweater on. There was no television, so it meant reading. The only thing I liked about the castle was it’s library. I found one on the history of the place. I don’t know why I picked it up, it’s just when looking through the shelves of books it fell onto the floor. I was going to put t back, however there was something that made me want to read it. I climbed under the blankets and opened the book. I started to read. It was built in the 1600s, by Lord Robert Campbell. He brought his bride Lady Elizabeth to live there. She died in childbirth. The child was found drowned in the pond a year after its birth. Lord Robert remarried, Lady Anne. They had three children. Percy, Mary and Alice. Lady Anne died six weeks after the youngest was born. She had jumped from the castles second floor. There was no reason why she took her own life. She fell into a deep melancholy before the child was born. The house remained in the family. Today it was owned by Leonard and Darcy Campbell. Fortunately the death of Lady Elizabeth, her child and Lady Anne was the last of the tragedy to fall upon this family. Penny had said there was a ghost, I wondered if it was Elizabeth or Anne? As if hearing my thoughts I heard and saw a shaking of the chair. I shuttered. I wanted to get out of the room. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. The light then started to flicker and I jumped out of the bed and out the door. I banged on Penny’s door and before she could even answer I opened the door. Penny was reading a book and looked startled. I was shaking. “What?” she asked. “I want to leave,” I told her. “Oh my god you saw a ghost? What was it like?” “I didn’t see anything, now let’s go.” Penny was so excited. “I’m going into your room,” she announced. Jumping out of bed she quickly made it to the room I was staying in. I sat alone on her bed waiting for her to come back. I don’t know how much time had gone by however it seem like an incredible amount. I nervously made my way to my room. The door was open and there was no sign of Penny. “Penny,” I called out No response. “Penny,” I called out again. Still no response. I thought she might have gone down to the kitchen and I scurried there. There was a light on in the kitchen and when I opened the door I saw Jane sitting at the table. Jane was the manager of the castle. “Sorry, I’m looking for my friend Penny. She went into my room and isn’t there anymore,” I explained. “What room are you in? Jane questioned. She had a beautiful Scottish brogue to her voice. Which made me feel warm and inviting. “I’m not sure, it doesn’t have a number on it. It’s three doors down from the bathroom” Jane sighed. “Not another one. I looked and felt alarmed. “Don’t worry Lassie. She’s most likely found the door and can’t get out.” We made our way to my room and she told me, “This room was meant to be Lady Elizabeth’s room. The secret door as rumour had it Elizabeth’s secret lover would hide. It doesn’t go anywhere, there is no passage.” I loved a scandalest tale. She went on to explain, “her lover worked on building the castle and was going to make it a passage out. Before he could start on the passage he hid in there from Lord Robert. He got stuck and Lady Elizabeth was moved to another room and forced to stay there during her confinement.” I looked puzzled, “She was with child.Lord Robert knew the child was not his and locked her away.” “She died in childbirth,” I added “That was the official story. Some say she was murdered by Lord Robert. Some say she took her own life. I think she was murdered as was her child.” My heart sank, I couldn’t believe someone would murder a child. “That’s so sad.” We continued to look for Penny to no avail. I was getting more concerned as time ticked by. We decided to try outside, however when Jane opened the door we could see and feel a strong wind had gushed up, Jane now looked just as concerned as me. “We won’t get far in this wind,” she explained, slamming the door shut. “I’ll call the police.” I went into the living area, I realised I was very cold. I look at the fireplace trying to work out how to turn it on. Suddenly the flame sprung up, creating a fire. I jumped back. I looked around the room and at first I saw nothing. I then saw a woman in the doorway. She was wearing a long yellow gown in the style of yesteryear. My heart was pounding. I wanted to scream, however I could feel I was unable to make a sound. The figure stood staring at me. Suddenly she was right in front of me. I let out a loud piercing scream. Jane came racing in, my scream did not scare the figure instead she stood silently in front of me. “Lady Anne,” Jane called out. The figure moved toward Jane. I raced to hide behind a chair. I had no idea if this would help, however instinct told me to do this. The figure turned her attention back to me. Then as quickly as she appeared she disappeared. “I’m leaving,” I announced, coming out behind the chair. Suddenly loud laughter rang out. Walking into the living room was Penny. “It’s not funny. I’m leaving. And where have you been?” Penny continued laughing, I rolled my eye and was about to storm out. Leonard the owner appeared? “I’m sorry,” he said to me. “Your friend here said you’d like to see a ghost. We do this for our guests.” “Some friend you are Penny. What makes you think I wanted to see a ghost? So was that really a ghost?” I questioned. “Hologram,” Leonard said. “I’m sorry, I would never have done it if your friend here didn’t say you would get a kick out of it.” I then stormed up to my room and packed my bag. Penny came in looking very sorry, “Don’t talk to me,” I snapped. “I’m taking the car and going to stay at a pub.” Before Penny could say anything I walked out. Penny started to follow me When suddenly a loud scream came out of our mouth. Leonard and Jane ran up the stairs and looked at me. Before they could get near me I disappeared. They wanted a ghost, I was one. I was Lady Elizabeth and until I was reunited with my lover, I was going to take my anger out on the guests intruding in my home.


Log #1 It's been a week since the bombs fell and knocked out all life around. Well, almost all life. Me and a few others survived the initial blast. There was a prediction there was going to be an all out war. The U.S. had to get in a tight predicament with Russia. Honestly, I was expecting it. But with North Korea, not Russia. I think everyone was expecting it. I wish I could've done something more to keep my family safe. I wish I knew what was going on up there. I wish I could see the sun. Oh yeah, I should probably tell you what's going on. In short, the U.S. got Into an all out war with Russia due to tension with resources. And, a few nukes were dropped from and onto both sides. Unfortunately for me, I was in one of the few places that suffered. How am I alive? Well, everyone knew something was going to happen. And I happened to have an in with someone with a bunker. One of my childhood friends was in a good place in life. He had a stable grasp in a financial way. A few months ago I messaged him about what was happening with the countries and the tension between them. He said he had a place that was safe. He said in worst case scenario, I was welcome. The first bomb dropped about a week ago. Ever heard on Los Angeles? Now it was just a place of death and destruction. The only normal thing that came out of it was the wildfire. Then the U.S. threw two back. Then Russia threw more. Then the U.S. threw even more. It was now that I decided to message my friend. Hey there, would you mind if I came and camped out for awhile? I asked No, not at all. You know where to find me. Feel free to bring some canned goods. He responded. I grabbed as many things of canned fruits, vegetables, and a mini pie too. I grabbed a sleeping bag, my laptop, phone, and their chargers too. As I was leaving, I realized I almost forgot my ferret. I just got him the other day, don't blame me. The reason all of this was so urgent was because I live so close to a few big towns in Ohio. I was speeding down the highway not an hour later, and that was when I got a feeling. A feeling I've never gotten before. I've felt unsafe before. But this was weird. I felt... Death It was a feeling I've never felt like before. Maybe the universe was warning me. I pulled on an exit not a mile away from my destination. I pulled into his driveway. I felt it before I saw it. Everything shook. Then I saw it. The brightest light I've ever seen was in front of me. I got out when I reached his house, and immediately knocked on his door. He came from the other side of the house and asked me if I had anything of value in the car with me. I ran and opened my trunk. The first thing I grabbed was my ferret and his food. Then I stacked up on canned goods. He did too and ran out into a field. I followed and he stopped. I stopped. He opened the latch and told me to drop everything and get in. I dropped everything but my ferret. into the hatch and started down the ladder. He followed. I reached the bottom and saw him start down the ladder. I remembered something. I'm such an idiot. When he made it down I started up. He yelled at me and I said I'd be one minute. I ran to my car and grabbed the generator I had. When I looked back I saw another one. A second ball of light. I ran back as fast as I could. I opened the door and dropped the generator onto a mattress my friend had laid there. I took one last look at the apocalypse scenario around me when I closed the hatch and started down. I hoped I would see the sun again soon.