I’ve started to write something. I don’t really know what I’m writing, but I’d like to spill my stream of consciousness out onto a page, grasping my thoughts, before they drift away again. I don’t know where they drift off to, there’s nowhere they could physically go, but they do. It seems to be important to acknowledge all these thoughts, accept them, but don’t dwell on them. I spend far too much time thinking, overthinking, arguing with the voice in my brain, so I thought I’d give that voice in my brain another task. That voice in my brain is now typing out this, and at least it stops him arguing with myself. I find that if I keep that voice adequately occupied, it prevents us squabbling, and that way I can live peacefully. I’ve never tried meditation- to me it’s like a mixed martial arts, training myself mentally against the annoying voice- but I’ve never done it. It’s probably the annoying voice that has convinced me not to, outsmarting me in a way, so that I cannot defeat him. I’m speaking of this other voice as though it isn’t really me, but it is, and it seems that everybody has another annoying voice. If not, we’d all walk around completely content with ourselves- not afraid to speak to girls, to large groups of people and just being happy to be alive. This annoying voice spends far too much time regretting what I haven’t done in a day and why I’ve been staring at my phone for multiple hours. Without it, I think I’d be happy just surviving. After all, we’re only here to survive, so why aren’t I happy just doing this? There’s something special about humans. Our quest for surviving has evolved as we have. We no longer just search for twigs, to light a fire, to keep ourselves warm, to cook food, to stay alive, to have children. We also have that annoying voice, which perhaps isn’t so annoying. It makes us curious, it makes us do stuff and that’s what makes us better as a race. Without that voice, I would not be wandering aimlessly in my thoughts right now. I seem to be fighting that voice right now, desperately trying to add some structure to these thoughts, to develop a storyline, and almost an argument for this piece of writing. But I shouldn’t need to, I want to let that voice do the talking. The voice is probably the reason why we are surviving now, and is setting is up for success as we colonise other planets- instead of sitting here waiting for the next existential threat. It tells you to get off your arse, but it also makes your mind wander and ask questions. The voice will keep asking those questions, badgering away and being “annoying” until we find the answers. At which point, it will ask another question and the cycle continues. But we have bettered ourselves in this time, we now understand about the depths of the universe, we can speak to someone thousands of miles away, we can manipulate energy into many forms and we can keep ourselves free from disease and illness quite effectively. So maybe the annoying voice isn’t so bad after all. Its incessant nagging can get tedious at times, but it’s remarkable ability to take me places, without going anywhere, and tell me to doing something, without actually saying anything, is very special. However, we still know very little about how that voice operates, in a location we have named “the brain”, the most complex organism in the universe. I think, that instead of trying to train the annoying voice, I should let the voice train me, let it ask those questions and I’ll seek the answers, riding out the misery it does sometimes inflict. Because maybe one day, once we’ve answered all of the questions, the annoying voice will tell us a bit about itself. We will have mastered the brain. I think I’ll try to befriend the annoying voice.


Avidan made a tidy living writing formulaic romance novels full of graphic descriptions of casual sex, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He published under a pen name, and told no one. All his loved ones thought he worked at his volunteer job at the homeless shelter, and somehow never questioned how a person could afford an apartment in this city from whatever imaginary earnings they thought he accrued from such a modest organization. His life was smut and serving soup. His editor told him she was going to have to take a ten month leave of absence for personal reasons involving cocaine and legal trouble, but that everything was perfectly fine. Really. She assured him that she would return at the conclusion of this hiatus prepared to edit, and was trying so hard to keep her cool in this three-minute phone call that she didn’t give him any writing parameters at all. This was unprecedented. “No wonder she always sends her edits in the middle of the night,” he said to himself after he got off the phone. Avidan set his personal feelings regarding drug addiction aside and contemplated the gift he’d just been given. Thankfully, his last novel was already on the press, which meant it was time to start a new one. He could finally write however he wanted. He had ten months, but this project had to be of such quality that his editor would publish it even though it wasn’t like his other books. He was going to go rogue. It had to be a romance novel or his editor wouldn’t touch it, so he poured his heart and soul into writing the romance novel he’d always wanted to write. After ten grueling months of late nights and peanut butter sandwiches set on top of glasses of milk next to his computer for more meals than was really prudent, he had a complete draft. The protagonist had a complex personality, and rejected the handsome man who doggedly pursed her because he was shallow and controlling. When he attempted to rape her, she gave him a knee to the groin and reported him to the authorities. He went to prison halfway through the book. She overcame nearly insurmountable obstacles in order to receive a formal education, and met a wonderful man who treated her as an equal. They fought some pirates and then moved to a city where they had ample career opportunities. His editor broke the silence. “Do you have a draft for me?” She sounded more like her old self, if less energetic. “Well...I do... It’s not like my other novels. Just read it and keep an open mind.” “This does not inspire me with confidence.” She read it. She loved it. They sent edits back and forth for a while, then it was published. Within six months, it was apparent that this book was going to sell extremely well. Whether it was the pirates, or the total breakdown of normal romance novel procedure, either way, he now had many readers. The publisher increased the advertising budget, and then sales exploded. Now there was talk of a book tour. This was problematic. He had no way of explaining his absence to his friends and family, and felt bad about taking leave from the homeless shelter. Sales went up and up, and soon his other books had increased sales, as well. Avidan was becoming a rich man. “The book tour is non-negotiable.” They told him. “You leave in June, come back in September.” He was going to have to tell his friends and family. This did not go well. He was glad he decided to call his parents, rather than tell them face to face. “You’re some kind of porn writer?” His mom scornfully spat out. “What happened to writing Christian books? That’s all you talked about, growing up.” “Writing smut is the only way to make a living as a novelist,” he attempted to explain in vain. Then, he endured a fifteen-minute lecture about Jesus, moral values, and the importance of good reputation and how he was destroying their family. He tried to point out that he wrote under a pen name, but his mom was resolute in her certainty that everyone would find out once he did the book tour. “It’ll be your face in all the pictures. People will know.” “What pictures? Nobody is going to take any pictures. I’m just going to go to bookstores and sign books.” His dad intervened at this point and negotiated in earnest for the family to simply never discuss this issue again. It was left that way. So he thought. Right before he left for his book tour, he received a call from his 89-year-old religious grandmother. “I’ve read all your books, and I have some questions...” she began. “Oh, dear God, no!” He couldn’t help but say. “Calm down. I’ve had two husbands and know more about romance than you. I have questions about some of the decisions your heroines made. Why in the world did Penelope in your first book lead on that poor, hardworking lawyer who loved her so much?” They discussed G rated plot details for hours, and she gave him valuable insight. He was shocked to have such an unlikely supporter of his career. His friends mostly made fun of him, and he learned from his mistake with his family and refrained from divulging his pen name, despite considerable pressure. Then, there was the matter of the money. Avidan had royalties pouring in, and he was a simple man who required few material things. He completed his book tour, sales still skyrocketing, and was given complete liberty to write his next book. As he set about to write another novel that broke convention, his savings had accumulated to the point that he could retire if he wanted. Instead, for the rest of his long career, he continued to write industriously, and donated all his earnings to the homeless shelter. He no longer volunteered there, instead spending all his time writing so that he could maximize his earnings. They were able to expand, serve better meals, hire more staff, and start providing additional services with his smut money.


### Musket Whines ###### 6 min read - 1264 words Quiet as it was, you could hear a baby takin' it's first breath out in the street that mornin'. I wasn't no liar and I'd be damned if I'd let that bitch steal my horse without no say so on my part. Velvet meant the world to me and I wasn't about to concede to no horse thievin' whore over the say so of an ol' drunkard. They called me Fire in my brothel tendin' days, on account of my hair, and Velvet was my prize. She was my escape. The day I knew I was done makin' men satisfied in exchange for dignity, I offered a trade for my services, the exchange being Velvet. You could get you'self a shit foal for ten dollars. Velvet was priceless in my eyes. Within a day, Sherry was at my door, falsely accusin' me of stealin' her man and her horse. Sherry kept comin' round, spreadin' evil words and I'd had enough. I says you want my horse, you goin' to have to kill me for her. That's how it all started. My beloved horse and a lying, no good, whore. So here I was, standin' back to back with the devil's wife herself, pistol in hand, ready to die for my ride to a better life, wonderin' if I'd made the right choice. A crowd had gathered, account of drunkard's mouths always bein' open, and I was uneasy about the short path layin' ahead of me. My heart pounded away like the hooves of a thousan' horses. If Sherry didn't do me in, my heart just might. Pistol to my chest, I could barely hear the words the Deputy Sheriff statin' the rules of the duel over my heart poundin' away, but I knew the rules. Ten steps and I'll be sending the devils wife back to her fiery rockin' chair. I could back down, but the world wasn't built for cowards an' I'd lose Velvet and my ticket out of this hell hole. "One!" I took my first step, mind racin' and retracin' my childhood. I thought about my father leavin' me as a baby in the care of strangers in this harsh, cruel world. From what I hear, my father was more interested in the bottom of a bottle than raisin' a child. If Sherry wasn't shittin' herself now, she would be soon. Fuckin' liar. "Two!" Another step. First home I can remember was just four walls and a loft of hay to sleep in. Damn strangers already had 'nough children and treated me like I was just another animal in the Goddamn barn. If they hadn't of had chickens, I'd probably had died of starvation. Raw eggs taste like snot, but it's better than an empty stomach. "Three!" I remember the orchard out back behind the barn. The days after school spent cryin' and wonderin' why kids were the devils spawn, teasin' my hair and freckles. I miss the taste of apples and peaches already. If we get through this, Velvet can have all the apples she want's, from here 'til kingdom come. "Four!" The steps are coming automatically. I think of the fields of hay and my muddy, tattered clothes as I hid from that abusive, piece of shit, fondlin' me all the time an' tellin' me to settle down. When I'm done blowin' Sherries head clear off, I'm comin' for you next. "Five!" I'd turn now and send that bitch packin' if it wasn't for the crowd and the Deputy watchin'. If I miss that whore and she get's the better of me, I'll be damned if someone else don't do her in for me. Not like she's done anyone in this town any favors, accusin' everyone and everything of fuckin' up her life. "Six!" I see the sign above the saloon doors swingin' in the breeze and some drunkard spit's tobacco while leanin' on the s'loon door. Anyone who wasn't in the street before is makin' there way out here now, ready for a spectacle to begin. I may have been an ugly child, but I grew into my own and I can see the wanderin' eyes watchin', wonderin' if I'll be back in there solicitin' a bed. "Seven!" Well if Sherry ain't shit herself by now, she sure as hell 'bout to. Hell, I'm having a hard time keepin' my whits 'bout me. Ain't no one in this town know'd me to be the lyin' type, but I said I'd die for Velvet and that's a promise I intend to keep. Nothin' in this world ever meant much to me, God knows ain't no one befriended me for the sake of doin' so. Velvet will change all that. She may not be human, but she's a good horse and a worthy companion. "Eight!" I can feel the sweat beadin' across my brow. The sun is bright and hot, leavin' me worse for the wear. A dress might have been cooler, but ain't no one to impress and I intend to get while the gettin's good when I'm done killin' a bitch. I remember the first time I saw a man die in this street, and the feelin's are lessened each time I take witness to it. "Nine!" I can see the crowd fidgetin' among themselves. They're like a fox that's happened upon a hen house, pacing with the eagerness of knowin' blood is 'bout to be shed. I can see a child pullin' at his momma's dress and wonderin' what all the countin' and silence is about. For all I know, this is the first death he'll witness. I remind myself to try to breathe steady. It'll be over in a few more pounds of my chest. "TEN!" It's just a number, but the Deputies word echo's through the street. I spin around, catchin' a glimpse of the shops and shop keeper's scornful eye's watchin' two women about put one or the other to death and it feels like an eternity as I'm bracing myself for what could be my last. As I start to straighten out my arm and prepare to take aim I can see the Deputy standing off to the side, eyes flickin' back and forth from me to Sherry to catch the moment one of us falls. A shot rang out and it wasn't mine. I gasp and pull the trigger of my pistol, hopin' to at least finish her sorry ass off before I fall down dead in the street. The second shot ring's out and I fall back expecting that I'll soon be taking my last breath. From where I lay on the ground, I watch as my bullet pierces through Sherry and she falls to the ground on her hands and knee's gaspin' for air, blood starting to pool 'round her breast. She's chokin' and coughin' up blood like I'd seen so many times before on this very street. I want to check myself and see where I've been hit, but I need to watch her lyin' eyes take in their last sight. Somewhat unsurprisingly, I haven't been hit. Sherry was always a shit shot and inexperienced when it came to shootin' pistols. She must have been shakin' in her boots, because I wasn't prepared for what I saw unfold. I glanced around the crowd wonderin' what became of her bullet and as I my eyes trailed from person to person, I saw him fall to the ground. Sherry had let her shot out early, probably on account of bein' a dumb whore, and caught the Deputy Sheriff in the throat.


"What is it like?” he whispered, trying to calm himself. She sighed. “It is exactly what you think it would be like.” He was not sure if she would continue, given her extremely annoyed expression. He had no choice but to wait, nearly forgetting to breathe as he counted the seconds in his head. “I have often thought of how I would explain it to a human if one ever asked me. I have had millions of make-believe conversations in my head with frightened, scared, little know-it-alls such as yourself. When they realize its all true... the look on their face.. Its beautiful.” Her words were so fluid. She half smiled and her eyes filled with a sinister resentment for him. She again paused an awkward length of time before inhaling sharply and resuming her thought. “In those mock conversations, I always try to explain the difference between living one life...with one family, one schooling experience, one professional experience, and one death... and living hundreds. I have been every profession imaginable and I have been nearly every type of person as well.” She spoke slowly, with purpose, as if reading a script. She paced in front of him as she continued, “There were decades where I was kind and had a family. Decades were I was alone and dreamed of a better life. Decades were I was an explorer and traveled everywhere...” her voice had changed to a sweeter tone. He could tell she was remembering something, or someone. She was thinking about something other than him and he felt a second of relief. “I have quiet literally done it all and now, unfortunately for you, you humans tend to bore the shit out of me.” Her voice had reverted back to the harshness that first accompanied it. Upon hearing her last thought he quickly knew his stalling tactic was failing and scrambled his brain for a challenging question, an interesting thought...anything! She inched closer to him and her eyes were no longer looking into his. They turned a empty, midnight black; displayed his scared reflection. He shook his head in terror and cried every plea he could make until he suddenly blurted out, “What about love?!” She paused at his inquiry and smiled large and warmly. “Oh. You’re doing that cute thing that frightened humans do. You want to know me? You want to find out my secrets? You want me to share things with you, things that will make you important? Well, guess what.” Her eyes faded back to a radiant blue and her skin flushed with color. She looked... beautiful. And caring. She looked at him the way his grandmother would when he was younger. She looked so familiar he unintentionally relaxed. Even stopped crying. “You’re not.” His blood was drained from him faster than the warm feeling from her smile.


This is an excerpt from my new novel that will be coming out soon The Long Walk Home: EMP I lit my solar lamp and was just about to check the stove. “What the hell is that?” Jeb said, pointing at the lamp. “It’s a solar lamp.” “Why is it working?” “Because it’s solar?” I said. “But the EMP fried all that stuff. Why does yours work?” “I don’t know. I didn’t even think about that before. I checked it when I took it out of my trunk at work that day and it was working.” “So being in your trunk must have protected it in some way. Then maybe some of the stuff sitting out there in the trucks might still work too.” “I have a bunch of stuff in that shipping container outside. All my camping gear is in there and so is the solar system I bought for this house.” “If that still works, it will be a game-changer for all of us,” he said, grabbing me and swinging me around. “I have two-way radios out there too,” I said. “We could talk to your mama and daddy from here if they still work.” “Well, Hope, let’s go find the radios,” I said. I found the key to the shed and opened the door. Finding the tub with the radios fairly easily. Rick and I had a huge fight because I thoughtlessly packed them up when we could have used them during the moving process. I had come down here and gotten them, but he refused to use them so I had put them back. “Wow, Hope. I really was blind about him,” I said, trying to shrug off the memory and the emotions that had come with it. I pulled out one of the radios, said a prayer, and turned it on. It worked. Tears streamed down my face. “Thank you, God. Thank you that Rick had that fit and I put them back.” I found the charger and Rick’s solar charger. I hooked it up and set it in the sun and it worked too. I grabbed the other radio and checked on the chicks. Twelve still. Lucy seemed to be okay with them. “Hey Hope, let’s take this radio and charger over to John and Cindy’s,” I said, patting her head. “We will have to be quick though, it will be dark soon.” I put everything in a backpack and we took off towards Cindy’s house. It was a beautiful day and other than the mud it was a pleasant walk. Hope, of course, had to splash through every mud puddle she saw and shake the extra off on me. I didn’t think about how I looked when Cindy came to the door. “Oh my God, what happened to you? How badly are you hurt?” I looked down at myself in confusion. “Oh, the mud, Hope shook that on me,” I said, laughing. “You scared me so badly,” she said. “I couldn’t bear anyone else getting hurt right now.” Then tears started pouring down her face. “Cindy, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m so sorry. I found our radios and they still work and I was just so excited to bring one over,” I was hugging her, patting her back, and starting to cry myself. When she had composed herself, she said, “Don’t be sorry. I haven’t allowed myself to cry since this whole thing started. I was overdue. Sorry, you had to be the one to deal with it.” “Nothing to be sorry about, “ I said. “Now what did you say about a radio?” “Things that were in my trunk were still working. I don’t know why I didn’t connect the dots before but I went out to the shipping container I have for storage and found these radios and they still work too. I brought you a solar charger. Now we can communicate I hope. They have a pretty good range, when I get home I’ll call you and we can test it out.” “Sophie, this will change everything. Have you tried the emergency channel yet?” “No,” I said. “I wanted to be around other people when I did.” “I understand that,” she said. “John’s getting better already, by the way. Meg marked his leg where the stripe was and it was gone back a quarter of an inch already.” “More good news!” “Try the emergency channel,” Cindy said. I turned the radio on and changed it to the weather band. Static. “I shouldn’t be disappointed, but I am,” she said. “I’m kind of relieved that there is nothing in a way. I miss some things about life before, but not that many really.” “The only thing I miss right now is emergency rooms and pharmacies.” “Yeah, I know,” I said, hugging her. “I have a solar system in the shipping container that was supposed to be for my house. If it still works, I want you and John to have it. I think it will do the most good here for all of us.” “Sophie, we couldn’t take that. It’s too much.” “Just think for a minute, if we can get your freezer working again what would that mean for all of us? Your house is the heart of this community and you should have it.” “We will discuss it as a group, but I would hate to take something so precious.” “Honestly Cindy, I don’t want it. I enjoy the peace and quiet.” “We’ll talk about. Now I hate to rush you, but it will be dark soon and I can’t wait to see if the radios will work between the two houses. So git,” she said, laughing. “I’m gone,” I said. “Let’s go, Hope.” I was completely covered in mud by the time we got back and I didn’t have any water in the camp shower warming. “Cold shower it is. Thanks a lot, Hope.” She didn’t seem at all sorry. I pulled out the radio and turned it on. “Cindy, I’m home. Can you hear me?” I let go of the talk button and held my breath. “Yes, yes, I hear you, Sophie!” “Is Jeb back yet?” I asked, looking at the quickly setting sun. “No, don’t worry though. Jeb and Sam can take care of each other and Meg was with them so they won’t do anything foolish.” “I know,” I said. “I’ll have him call you when he gets back. It’s so nice to be able to say that,” she said. “It’s nice to hear too.” I quickly changed and washed the mud off. Lucy was now the proud mama to twelve chicks. There was still one egg left. Then I went inside to wait. I made coffee and fixed myself something to eat. After I cleaned up from my meal, I went outside to check the chickens in the coop. It had been full dark for nearly an hour when I finally heard his voice on the radio. “Sophie, are you there?” “Yes, I’m here. Are you okay?” “We are all fine. We hit the motherload at the drugstore, then went to another town nearby and did very well there too. I’ll be there as soon as I help unload everything.” “See you then,” I said. I put the coffee on to reheat and waited. Hope jumped up and ran to the door and so did I. “Sorry that took so long, but we found some good stuff that will save lives. Meg was literally jumping up and down,” he said, as he picked me up and swung me around. “How is your dad?” I asked when I caught my breath. “He is doing much better. The red streak is almost gone. Is there coffee?” “Of course there is, do you want anything in it?” “No, just coffee tonight.” I poured two cups and handed him one. “I’m supposed to let Mama know I got here. Where’s the radio?” “This is so nice,” I said, handing it to him. “Hey Mama, I’m at Sophie’s,” he said. “Thanks for letting us know. I can go to bed now. See you later,” she said. “Good night, Mama,” he said. “I guess we can go to bed now too.” “But I’m not tired,” I said. “Good, cause neither am I,” he said with a wicked grin. I woke up the next morning to the sound of a very busy hammer. I got up and dressed quickly and went outside. The outhouse was really spectacular. It was an A-frame with shingles. It looked like a mini Swiss chalet. The vents at the top were covered in a lacy trim. “Is that what I think it is?” I asked. “Yes, it is your new and much-improved outhouse,” he said, bowing. “It has a proper door and hinges. How will I ever adjust to such new-fangled implements?” “You are such a smart ass. But that’s one of my favorite things about you,” he said, hugging me. “I can’t believe I slept through you doing all of this.” “Most of it was already built, I just had Max deliver it this morning,” he said. “And I did wear you out last night.” “Yes, sir, you did,” I said, blushing. “And I intend to do it again tonight,” he said, kissing me. “Now go make breakfast while I finish up here.” “Yes, sir,” I said, saluting. “Get out of here you smart ass!” he said, laughing. “Did Max take the chicks this morning?” I asked. “Yeah, he told me to tell you that the last egg had hatched. He took Lucy too. Mama wanted her to help keep them warm.” “That’s fine. I feel much better about your mama having them. I don’t know anything about keeping baby chicks alive without power.” “How many were there?” “Thirteen,” I said. “Mama will be jumping up and down. She says we need one hundred more chickens. She had just had hers butchered for the winter when this happened. Most of it went bad because we couldn’t eat them all fast enough.” “Well, I’ll go make breakfast now,” I said, kissing him. “I’ll be in a few minutes,” he said. We had settled in to eat breakfast and I asked, “Have you ever been married?” “No, I came close once, but she didn’t want to live out here and I sure as hell didn’t want to move to Birmingham. So we called it off. I have had a few girlfriends since then, but no one special, until now.” “I never dated very much. Rick’s family hated Tammy and basically told him they would disown him if he married her. He broke up with her and we started dating. I think he picked me because our parents hate each other. Maybe he thought they would reconsider Tammy. They gave us a house even though we eloped and screwed everyone out of their party. After a year of doing all the social stuff we were obligated to do in our small town, we bought this land and moved, pissed everyone off. Being rebels was all we had in common though, I see that now. We had talked about kids in the future, so when I realized I was pregnant I couldn’t wait to tell him. He tried to be excited, I thought he was just in shock and would come around. When I lost the baby, he couldn’t hide that he was happy and relieved. It was never the same after that,” I said, wiping the tears off my cheeks. “A few weeks later I answered the phone and a nurse asked to let him know that he missed his follow-up appointment for his vasectomy. I never told him I knew.” I looked up at Jeb and he had tears in his eyes too. “I’m sorry, I’ve never told anyone that before. I didn’t mean to be a downer.” “Don’t apologize. I want to know everything about you and I’m glad you told me that. I would be over the moon if we were to have a baby someday.” I smiled at him and he kissed me. “What about your parents? Would you like to go check on them?” “They died last year during the pandemic,” I said. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” “I have a brother, he is a lot older than me and we were never close. I can’t see him as the type to survive what happened. My dad used to take me camping, but my brother never wanted to go. I don’t think he knows the first thing about survival.” “Well, I’m very glad that you found your way here. You’re not alone anymore.” “Me too. Now let’s go see what goodies are in my shipping container to make our lives a little better.” There were eight solar security lights, a dozen solar lanterns, several strings of solar party lights, a solar generator kit for camping, and the system that I had purchased for the house. “The outhouse for sure gets one of these security lights,” I said. Jeb laughed. “Sam is an electrician, so he can install the solar system for the house.” “About that, I think that should go to your parents’ house. We can use the camping system here.” “Why?” “They have more room and if we can find a freezer that works think about how much that would mean to everyone. We have to think of ourselves as a community now and use our resources in a way to best help everyone.” “You’re right. I may know where there is a freezer in a shipping container.” “That system would have run everything here. Sam will know how much it can handle, but we may be able to have more than one freezer and a refrigerator.” “Well, let’s keep two security lights and two of the lanterns and take the rest to Mama’s. I’ll call Mama right now and call a family dinner so we can discuss all this.” “I’m going to set up the camping system and see if it charges and works.” That night after dinner, Jeb laid out all the supplies we had found in my shipping container. “Looks like Christmas came early,” Cindy said. “Well, it’s much more than just this stuff. This means that things we find in trucks out on the highway will work, maybe too. This means we could possibly restore some of the comforts that we have lost. Sophie has a solar system that was supposed to be installed on her house and she would like us to install it here, for all of us to use. Sam will have to look at it and see what is possible, but we could have at least one freezer, a refrigerator, and maybe some other things too,” Jeb said. “We couldn’t take that from you, Sophie,” John said. “I have another system that I used for camping. I will keep that one. But we need to put our resources where they will do the most good and help the most people right now. Having that system here will do the most good for all of us,” I answered. “All that is contingent on us finding appliances that are in trucks, correct?” Meg asked. “I think I know where we can get some. The furniture store in Fayette had inventory stored in shipping containers behind the store. I don’t think finding new appliances will be an issue and I think we can do it relatively safely,” Jeb answered. “Sam, do you think that you could use what Sophie has as a guide and make more of these systems?” Cindy asked. “That’s possible if we can find the components. The parts shouldn’t be too hard to find and my boss kept all his inventory in shipping containers. He might even have a solar system or two in there. I’ll be over in the morning to get Sophie’s and get started trying to make it work if that’s okay?” “I was hoping you would say that,” I said. We walked home in the dark, aided by Hope and a solar lantern. “You seem sad, Soph,” Jeb said. “I’m... I don’t know how to explain it. I have been so happy since the EMP. That sounds awful, I know. So many people died and that is horrifying. But I don’t miss TV or phones or traffic. I love the peace and quiet that we have and the life that we are building. Part of me wishes we hadn’t gotten all that stuff out of storage. I know that sounds crazy.” “It doesn’t sound crazy. I feel that way too. But having the security of a freezer will be awesome.” “I know. I just don’t want to end up right back where we were.” “That’s why it was so easy for you to give it away,” he said. “Yeah, but I still meant what I said about the greater good and all that.” “I know you do. Now let’s go in and see if your camping system is charged.” “It’s at about thirty percent, which isn’t bad for being almost dead,” I said. “Want some coffee?” “Sure, I’ll start a pot,” he said. “Nope, I have a coffee maker from my camping gear,” I said. I plugged the coffee maker into the inverter. Filled it with water and added the coffee grounds, then flipped the switch and waited. “Oh my God, I haven’t heard that sound in months,” Jeb said, once the air was filled with the gurgle of the coffee maker. “I suddenly feel like Pandora opening her box,” I said. Hope walked over and laid her head on my lap, sensing my mood. “You didn’t open that box, it was opened a very long time ago. I hope that we will use this gift to make our lives better,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee. The coffee tasted bitter to me, but I didn’t say anything.


*Sersun Chapters:* *This installment inspired by* *.* \ **Chapter 8: Enraged Earth** Night fell, passed, and was replaced by the morning dawn. Ezekiel had, as always, kept watch through the night. Nothing serious had happened aside from distant rumbling a few times during the night. At the time Ezekiel had thought it was just thunder from one of the many transitory storms, but when morning came and there were no clouds in sight he found himself worried. He made his way back to the camp in the plaza, finding Robin already awake and preparing breakfast. "Hey there Ezzy, how was nightwatch?" "Mostly uneventful, but there was rumbling off in the distance a few times last night." "We miss a storm then?" "No, there were no clouds, and it all came from the same direction." As if to punctuate Ezekiel's words, the rumbling sound echoed through the city streets again. Very close, close enough Ezekiel could identify it as a collapsing building. Robin scrambled to his feet as Riverwood and Sasha jolted awake. Robin looked up at Ezekiel, "Hey, would you mind going somewhere high up? That sounds like we've got a wraith nearby, let us know how close please." Sasha pulled her shield off the ground next to her and pointed down one of the streets, "Don't bother, it's already here." Ezekiel turned, a lumbering four-legged mass of dirt and rock as wide as the supply cart and twice as tall wandered in a far intersection. Robin motioned for Ezekiel to stay still, "Don't move, it might not have noticed us." Ezekiel blinked, "But it's right there." "Do you see any eyes on it? Earth wraiths find you through your footsteps." Sasha scoffed, "Especially yours, clanker." "Haven't you taken one of these down on your own before?" "Do I look like I can take a boulder the size of a house down on my own? They're usually smaller." The wraith turned, facing right towards them. With a sudden burst of speed, it charged. Robin gestured backwards, "Hey Riverwood, we're kinda squishy, mind getting us out of the way?" Riverwood grabbed Robin and launched the two of them upwards to a taller building with a gust of wind. Ezekiel glanced over at Sasha, "Are you going to get out of the way too?" "I know how to fight." Ezekiel heard a click and metal sheets folded out of Sasha's buckler, unfolding into a tower shield just as tall as she was bordered by razor-sharp edges. "Alright tin man, keep it distracted and hit it hard as you can. Only way to take these down is chip away until you reach the core." Ezekiel nodded, then launched forward at the oncoming wraith and slamming his shoulder into its center of mass. Rock splintered and shattered, chunks of dirt sprayed off, and as Ezekiel's feet plowed a furrow in the road the wraith began to lose momentum. Ezekiel heard a rush of wind, and a moment after that Sasha rushed past him at high speed. She dipped her shield down and pushed it through the top of the earth wraith's leg, the hit from its sharpened edge launching out a spray of earth. As Sasha readied herself for another charge the wraith bucked, launching Ezekiel up into the air and back to the plaza. Ezekiel hit one of the obelisks causing it to wobble ominously. He fell to the ground and moments later Sasha landed next to him somewhat more gracefully. Sasha growled, watching as Riverwood began holding the wraith's attention by showering the area around it with pieces of surrounding buildings. "This isn't going to work, we're going to be fighting it all day like this." Ezekiel looked back, "Can earth wraiths climb?" "No, why?" "Then we can just toss it in the chasm. It stops being our problem." Sasha nodded but was interrupted as Robin shouted out at them, "Hey ruffians! Get the wraith to charge the obelisk!" Sasha looked at Ezekiel. He shrugged and she nodded, "Help me get its attention, I'll lead it here." Ezekiel rushed the wraith again, picking up a piece of rubble and slamming it into the side of the wraith when it turned to face him. He could almost feel the anger pouring off it as he jumped back out of its way. Riverwood stopped the shower of rocks, and Sasha came in behind Ezekiel, slamming the front of her shield into the wraith where the impact from Ezekiel's first charge was still visible. Sasha jumped back and sprinted away from the wraith. Ezekiel held still until the two had passed, then began chasing behind them. He watched as Sasha reached the obelisk, kicked upwards, ran up its side for a few steps, and flipped back over the wraith as it collided with the obelisk. The obelisk shifted, sliding off its base and tipping out over the chasm. Ezekiel didn't wait to see the impact, jumping at the wraith instead. He slammed his entire weight into the staggering monster, and kept pushing until it tumbled over the side of the cliff. With a synchronized crash, the wraith hit the ground far below, and the top of the obelisk slammed into the far side of the gap. The obelisk cracked slightly, but held. Robin jumped down from his perch and sauntered over, grinning. "That solves both our problems at the same time, yeah?" Ezekiel looked at the fallen obelisk and let out a low whistle. The cart and supplies would need to be moved over separately, but sure enough, it would work as a bridge to get everything across. The path forward was open again.


Slowly, I turned that beam of cruelty I had always reserved for others as a way to keep the attention off me. I turned it onto myself, and you know what? It felt good. I mean, who was I? A lower middle-class, tall, scrawny thing that had little more to show for his 17 years than a trail of smoldering rubble from everything he touched. My motivations were fear and jealousy, hardly unusual for a citizen of the U.S.A. (Unusually Selfish Assholes), I just happened to handle this stress with the grace of a garbage truck. I looked in the mirror and said, "You are one low son of a bitch." Surprisingly, however, this realization didn't bother me. It was like I finally figured out who I was, and the revelation was a huge relief. I had always wondered if horrible people knew they were actually horrible people, and now I think the truly horrible people actually do, and they resign themselves to being the bad guy. Much like a serf must have lived with the drudgery of being a serf, or a marine on the front lines dealt with the inevitability of his own demise. "I am a serf, I was born to the land" and "I am a marine, I will take that hill or die trying." Both come up with a series of ideologies and religions to help them with this realization, and somehow give a desperate situation a bit of dignity. I was no different. I imagined a world of greedy, terrible people who were all out to get me, and I would do my best to screw them before they got to me, and then I'd screw myself for good measure because I was no better.  Suicide was never really an option. I've never tried to outright kill myself. That's not much, I mean many people live their entire lives without once killing themselves, but the fact that I've never really considered it is something I've always been proud of. It just always seemed like the easy way out. There were always those few kids in high school who never made it through. I remember one kid. 15 years old and his girlfriend of 3 months broke up with him. He got drunk, grabbed his dad's shotgun, sat on a motorcycle in his garage, and blew his brains all over the white wall behind him. His two best friends pleaded with him and watched helplessly as what was left of the body slumped forward on the motorcycle's handlebars. Gravity slowly pulled the corpse to the floor by the time the paramedics came with the bodybag and hugs for the parents. I still remember that picture of him in the yearbook, grinning like a ghost. Suicide is the ultimate cop-out, an embarrassing cry for attention, or a period at the end of a desperate sentence. I've never understood the slashed wrists, the intentional overdoses, the head in the oven, the jump off the bridge, and probably never will. Why not take some people down with you on the way?  Slow-motion suicide, that's the kind for me. The gradual killing of yourself over a long period of time, using malnutrition, sleep deprivation, cigarettes, unsafe sex, and drugs to whittle away at your once proud human frame. The modern tuberculosis that sits in your chest and eats you from the inside. You violently cough your dreams into the toilet, cables of bloody spit catching on the porcelain bowl. The strange thing about all this is that you feel tougher, meaner, leaner, and badder than anyone else, even though you probably couldn't fight for more than a minute without getting winded. You figure that smoldering chunk of coal in your belly will give you all the fuel you need to annihilate anything that gets in your way, and act tough enough so that nothing crosses your path. So it was for me.  High school passed. A few more years passed. By this time I had manufactured myself into some sort of dark, intellectual loner, quoting Dostoevsky, Marx, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer completely out of context, twisting their critiques of humanity into justifications of my cruelty, unaware of the meanings behind their words. I was brimming with pompous superiority, smugly correct in every instance, casting my shallow view across the humanity that I thought I understood. To effectively move against people, you must first put yourself above them, ordain your own mission in the name of a superior God (or a staunch belief in atheism), wrap yourself in a superior ideology, and then reassure yourself with your superior intellectual capacity. I did this with such alarming skill that by the age of 20, I could have shot anyone in the face with the .38 that I had taken to carrying, and dismissed the incident as little more than crushing a bug scurrying across my floor.  But also curious to my condition was also a strange state of feeling lower than everyone. Watching people meet for drinks, hold hands, cheer a football game, or even have breakfast out as a family served to do little more than further isolate me, and make me wonder why I wasn't one of them. Was it really my superiority, or was I incapable of moving as a 'normal' person, and wrapping myself in layers of intellectual gauze to explain away my inability to relate to anything? In hindsight the answer was pretty obvious but at 20, the world fucking owed me.  I met a girl at a punk show, Day-Glo Abortions at the Metroplex, 1986 or 87. She was rotten. She had red curly hair, freckles, black circles around her eyes, a body like a rugby captain, and smelled like a carton of spoiled milk dumped over a tub of rancid meat. Of course I was instantly in love. I stared at her for about 10 minutes straight before she came over and hit me up for a cigarette. I told her that smoking was for assholes who liked giving their money to corporations, but I offered her some of the bottle of rum I managed to sneak into one of the dark corners of the club. We didn't have much to say to each other, just what part of the city we lived in and where we were had gone to school. She dropped out of school after getting kicked out of her house. She tried to take the bus from her place downtown out to the suburbs every day, but it only worked out a few times before she gave up. The rest of the time she just sat, smoked pot, and listened to records. I made up a bunch of shit to make myself seem cool, and in the middle of a bullshit sentence, she kissed me with that rotten mouth of hers. She tasted like a pack of cigarettes fished out of a chemical fire, and had dirty nailed, clumsy hands that belonged to a man, but I went with it, more out of cool curiosity than lust or desire.  One of the opening bands, Porn Orchard, started playing and she pulled me to the front of the crowd, grabbing my hands around the wrists and putting them around her waist so that I was standing behind her, holding this stranger. She was only an inch shorter than me, which was saying a lot, and I had to strain my neck to avoid that rotten mop of a haircut bouncing infectiously in my face. Her stiff leather jacket caused a clammy sweat on me that chaffed with every jump. With my hands already around her damp belly, I moved my hands up her shirt onto her tits, waiting for any sort of reaction. There wasn't any, except for a slight smile I could barely see on the corner of her face. The band played for what seemed forever, and I eventually let go of her and walked to the back of the club where I had been before. I pulled out the rum and finished off the bottle, waiting for her to come back. I didn't see her again that night.  About two weeks later I was out again, by myself of course, and drunk. That's the best thing about public transportation, if you can manage to count out your 65 cents and sit down without throwing up, you can go anywhere. I took full advantage of that system, and probably spent half of my early adulthood sitting on a blue plastic MARTA chair, drunkenly trying to comprehend some book 20,000 leagues over my head, reading the same bitter sentences over and over again as if repetition would make me smarter. This night I was out to see Verbal Assault and The Stench at one of those clubs that disappears after a few gigs. I didn't have any friends at the shows, just the same people who seemed to be at every one I went to, who would nod in some sort of recognition to a fellow music fanatic, or maybe out of fear that I was someone important who knew more than they did.  I saw her at that show. She walked in with some huge skinhead. They weren't holding hands or anything, but he paid for her. I think the show was only $2, but still, the gesture must have meant something. They stood with their backs against the wall, side by side, wearing matching flight jackets. Now, instead of that rag-mop haircut, she wore a Chelsea, which is basically an inverted bowl cut, where everything under the bowl is shaved, and all hair not within the bowl's coverage area, is left, as a sort of fringe. Not too flattering, but you try telling that to a skin chick. I waited until he went to the bathroom and walked over.  "Hey, remember me?"  "No."  "Day-Glo Abortions?"  "Never heard of them."  "You kissed me at that show."  "Must have been someone else. You better move before my boyfriend gets back, or he's gonna jump you."  "I could take him."  "Could you take ten of his friends too?"  "No."  "Then fuck off."  I walked to the other end of the club. I knew I didn't have her confused with someone else. I can still remember that rotten milk stank to this day. I wasn't used to getting blown off like that. That did it. I had to have her, the fact that her boyfriend was some fat ass nazi skinhead didn't bother me, if anything it made things more imperative, more important that I get her, bag a disgusting girl who won't give me the time of day right from under the nose of a guy who would, in all likelihood, beat me to death. Being a guy ensures that you are constantly looking for a girl, and in that search you are turned down far more times than you succeed. The worst feeling comes when you drop your standards and go after some girl that disgusts you in every way, but for the mere fact that she is woman, and you still get brushed off.  I stared at her while her boyfriend was busily looking hatefully at the show, standing rigid and unflinching, like at any moment his services as an ignorant goon might be called upon. She stared back at me. Then she winked and smiled. Whether she was trying to lure me to destruction, or really wanting me I wasn't sure. My inflated image of myself made me think the latter, however thinking the former gave me a sexual charge that was undeniable. The unfair maiden, calling from behind the battlements, knowing my pursuit of her would result in my death, yet calling, singing, and staring. The challenge had been made, and seeing how at that point in my life, my mind broke every situation into winners and losers, challengers, competition, I could not back down. The fact that she was repulsive physically, and mentally (what kind of loser dates a Nazi?) made conquest that much more necessary, conquest for the sake of itself. After all, isn't life all about the pursuit of worthless things, the longing for worthless people, the absolute obliteration of your mind and body for worthless causes? Isn't that what makes us human? Or is it the fact that we deny the unimportance of our lives? Or is it simply the fact that we're relatively hairless and usually ungrateful?  I left the show early, deftly slipping her a piece of paper with a fake name and a real phone number on it. I didn't look at her until I was safely past. I turned around casually to see her slip the paper into her back pocket without telling her boyfriend. But still, she didn't call. Not for two weeks.  Exactly two weeks later, at about 1 in the morning, she called.  "Hey," she said. Right away I knew who it was.  "Hey," I answered.  "Do you have a car?"  "No."  "Fuck, I was hoping you'd come pick me up."  "I know the busses and trains like the back of my hand, where are you at?"  "Nevermind."  She hung up. She called back at 5 am.  "Hey."  "Hey."  "Can I come over?"  "Yeah. You have to take the bus though."  "Fine."  I gave her directions and about an hour later there was a knock on my door. She came in with an oversized duffle bag, sweeping her head around the small room as if looking for another way out.  "This place is small," she said.  "Yeah. It's cheap too."  "I'll bet. You live in a worse neighborhood than I do."  And with that, she moved in.  The next three weeks didn't amount to much, other than the ending of my sexual dry spell and the fact that I started smoking. She didn't have much to say, and I wasn't one for listening, so we just got high and listened to records all day. After fucking a few times, even sex got boring. A passionless rubbing of strangers. After only a week, neither of us would instigate anything, unless she got really drunk, and then she'd be on me like a malnourished cat. I think the stink she carried was almost tattooed on her, as she was possibly the only thing in the known universe that could make my apartment smell any worse. She was ugly and big, but that wasn't what bothered me. She was empty. Behind the eyes, there was nothing happening, nothing I could pick up on at least. She was like some sort of bloated jellyfish, living only to eat and stay warm. She didn't have a job, and seemed to get by on the general stupid programming of every male that makes us, even the bad ones, attempt to save women and protect them, even the worthless ones. I asked her where she saw herself in 20 years. The answer came immediately and predictably: I don't know.  At the time, my career was moving pot from downtown out to the suburbs every sixth day, a bowling ball sized hunk of compacted weed stuffed in a backpack that netted me $200 a week, just for riding 20 minutes on the bus each way. I was really good at it too, possibly the best. I looked like any suburban kid, maybe a bit leaner, with tight crewcut, so I definitely wasn't out of place as I got off the bus at Roswell Mall (the closest that the bus ever got to the north suburbs). On the bus, merely reading a fine work of literature keeps most people away. They'll resent you for being pretentious and most won't even dream you're moving enough weed to keep their kids high for 10 years. Of course now I know getting caught with that much pot in Georgia is tantamount to raping the police chief's wife in front of the whole station, but back then it was easier than working, and I didn't really give a fuck about getting caught. Something inside of me was very pleased by the fact that most of these drugs were broken up and sold to high school kids, hopefully fucking up their perfect little lives.  Life wasn't too bad for me, in fact it was so perfectly awful I was in love with it. I was the man with everything: a career, a woman, a palace to call my own. It was like the negative image of a normal life, something that was a Fuck You to everyone and everything around me. At the time it didn't seem odd that I build my life into a huge Fuck You. I mean to purposefully give yourself a bad life clues you in to who the Fuck You is really directed at. It took a while to figure it was pointed at me. And screaming Fuck You to yourself is insanity in anyone's book.  But then my perfect dream life ended, stopping my job as a drug mule and severing my cohabitation with one of God's nastiest creations. The choice was hardly my own. I came home from a run one day to get punched in the face by the girl's skinhead boyfriend, whom she had invited into my apartment, as well as two of his friends. They were smart enough not to dress like skinheads when coming into my neighborhood (if you're ever sick of living, dress up like a skinhead and go hang out in south Atlanta), and were waiting for me in an ambush that I assume was part revenge, and part business. They had already done a good job of breaking most of my stuff and setting aside my records to take home later.  "Give me the drugs," said her boyfriend.  "I just dropped them off."  "OK then, give me the money."  "I just move it. I don't get paid for another 2 days."  That got me knocked on the ground and kicked.  "Then we'll come back."  "I wouldn't. I've been making that run for 6 months without getting caught. If my guy hears that his star mule was getting shaken down, especially by a bunch of Nazis, he'd have you all killed." Which was probably true, but the hits would come more from the chance for a rich black dude to ice some skinheads than any concern for me.  "What did you say? You think we're scared of some coons?"  "Yeah, I do. Otherwise you would've worn your Johnny Rebel flight jackets down here." That was probably the remark that got the shit kicked out of me. Even the girl, who, up until this point had shown me nothing but pure disinterest, seemed to comprehend that she was basically getting me killed. Iron cross rings, steel toed boots, Budweiser numbed brains, all converging on my already damaged body. It only went on for a few seconds, but they were good at beatings, if nothing else.  "OK, ok, fine." I heard myself say through a bloody mouth. "I'll pay you."  "Damn straight you'll pay us."  "Come back. I'll pay you."  After they left, I laid there for a while, not that I had any other options. I was definitely bleeding from a few places, but I'd had worse. It wasn't a surprise that the girl called them or left with them, she was barely here when she was around.  Moving out of that place was easy, seeing how I didn't have any stuff left except some shirts and a box of books, which they somehow were unable to break and had no use for themselves. Yeah, moving out was easy, a suitcase full of dirty clothes and a box full of good books. The hard part was finding a place to go. I had burned most of my friends, and after people found out what I did to that girl back in high school, I wasn't too welcome in many places, even three years later. Anyone I talked to at shows was more of a cold acquaintance, who seemed to talk to me out of politeness, not exactly the people to ask for a couch. My parents had moved away after I graduated from high school, and I never really bothered to get the exact address.  I went to the dealer and told him what happened, played up the racism thing, made up some stuff they said about him, and suggesting that he put a few guys in my room and wait. He said he'd think about it, paid me my money, gave me an extra $100 and told me to go to the hospital. I thanked him, but I never went.  Instead, I rode the bus around a bunch. I even took a train to the airport and wandered around there, hoping to find a plane ticket on the ground or something. I sat and watched people getting off planes. Family, friends, or lovers scanned the steady trickle of weary passengers stumbling out of the doorway to the plane tunnel, wondering 'did they really get on the plane?' until they saw the face of the one they wanted. Some smiled and waited to be noticed, others blew right through the line, disrupting everything out of sheer joy. Some met with a handshake, some with a hug, some with a kiss. They'd offer to carry the traveler's bags, express concern for the quality of the flight, make some comment about bringing the good weather with them. They'd start talking about where the car was parked, how far they lived from the airport, who was waiting at home excited to see them, how the Braves were doing, stupid small talk that seemed so, comforting. I also saw the people who got off the planes by themselves. Hopefully looking around, as if some friend of theirs had deciphered the flight information and would be waiting for them as a surprise. This never happens.  I walked around and saw lonely men in airport bars, half-heartedly flirting with waitresses old enough to be their wives.  I took part of my $300 and bought a one-way ticket to Indianapolis. To this day I'm not sure why. I suppose I wanted to get out of the South, and the ticket to Indy was cheap. I knew that Vonnegut wrote about Indiana, as did Richard Bach. It didn't seem like it would be a very harsh city. It seemed like there would be nice people there. After all my shit, I was in the mood for nice. That's how it happened. I just got tired of being an asshole."  And now for a confession:  This entire conversation (Destroyer 2 and 3) isn't my story. It belongs to a guy who used to stop by my dorm room in college, usually drunk, late at night, ready to confess all of his sins while I sat and quietly listened. I have no way of knowing if it's even true, although I suspect most of it was. I'm not sure why he picked me to talk to, but we did have a lot in common. I originally met him at a party, and it turned out we were both from down South, both way into good books and old punk music. Although he wasn't enrolled in school, he was smart as hell, and just as untrustworthy. I couldn't leave him alone in my room without him pocketing a book or a CD and splitting. But he'd always bring them back. I told him that he could borrow anything I owned if he asked, and he told me that stealing was more fun, it was one of the only things that tied him to his old life. If he was telling the truth about his old life, he had turned things around pretty well. He was dating some Pharmacy student (he swore to me that it wasn't to get pills), and had a job at a record store. We even drove up to Chicago a couple times to go see shows, where we would spend most of our time wondering how the hell we'd never run into each other back in Atlanta.  "You know I'm going to steal your stories." I told him once.  "Oh, yeah? What are you going to do with them?"  "I don't know. Write a book or a movie or something."  "Tell you what, if you can live past 25, you can have it. Don't even give me credit."  "I won't. Anyway, it's not the story that's important, it's how you tell it."  "No," he said. "It's the story. It's always the story.


Pre-face: I’ve lived a long and prosperous life. Oft times, I sit in a chair near as old as myself and reflect. The neighbors seem to harbor fear or distrust for me as I stare blankly from my stoop. The lingering stares as they pass don’t affect me. I know of their secrets. I can see further and clearer than most, despite my current state of withering. The man across the way is an adulterer; he has even laid with his lowly maid. The neighborhood children are the cause for the pets gone missing. The neighbor to the left pockets the silverware when at others’ homes. The woman down the street had widowed herself. But they still pass, unaware of the ubiquity of a life long lived. My housemate is among them. He sleeps during the day and benights himself in the shadows as he prowls the streets at night. I watch him closely, for he seems the most disturbed on the street. And he watches back. I keep him out of reach to ensure my safety. I make sure he is comfortable and fed. When I rest my head and all-seeing eyes, I latch my doors and sleep facing the entrance. These securities I take may be superfluous, but they feel necessary. I awake to subtle sounds, those of mice skittering beneath the wooden floorboards or the chirping of a lost, lone cricket. Frequently, I have dreams of being watched. A man who peers around corners as I browsed the open markets. A child stuck in the corner of my eye. A bright light will shine on my face. Faint noises of metal scraping and creaking. These visions feel like more than a decaying man’s unconscious delusions and more of a warning. A warning that fell upon deaf ears. A warning I should have heeded. Half a fortnight has passed of these queer dreams before I was startled awake by a familiar sound. A sound that echoed from my fantasms; the creaking of an iron latch. The sanctity of my bed-chamber was compromised, and the door swung open. The silhouette of the man who breaks my bread ingresses and hovers to the foot of my bed. The housemate was leering above me. He bounds towards me with unremarkable speed. The lantern crashes to the floor. He grips my ankles and yanks my decrepit body to the floor. I let out one final cry, the last utterance of a life long lived. I hear a crunch and blinding pain as bones break upon impact. He drags the heavy metal frame over me, snuffing out my frail worldly existence. The pain fades rapidly and a darkness unknown creeps across my vision. I see nothing, but I can hear the thumping of a beating heart. One that is no longer mine. The beating softens to a whisper, then to a deafening silence. I can hear his heavy breathing as my chest falls for the last time with a rasp of stale air. His hand lies above my immobile heart for minutes. I am being dragged and am lifted into the porcelain basin. A stridulent sound arises as a saw grinds through my limbs, then my neck. I hear the strain of floorboards being pried up, and I tumble, piece by piece, into the emptiness below. I lie there cold and alone, bewildered by my inanimate awareness, for an indiscernible length of time. A knock comes from the postern and the falling of multiple feet enters my lodging. My slayer’s voice is booming with arrogance as he leads the officers to my dormitory. His deceit was clear to me. It appears he has meditated on this macabre act for a while. A chair is placed above my wooden sepulcher. His lies accumulate like snow rolling down a mountain. I am not simply out of town. His confidence staggers and the officers make a hushed note of it. My clothes still hang, my books still opened, my jewelry still displayed. I hear a thumping again. A heartbeat I long to have rests above me, thrashing uneasily in the chest of the man who ended a life long lived. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. The officers rise to their feet, erected by their suspicions. The murder casts aside the chair covering my false grave. “Villains!,” he shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!” A familiar creak came from above and the officers uncovered the remains of a life long lived.


He stood outside the liquor store, seemingly unaware of the rain pouring down upon him. His silhouette melding with the neon glow behind him, the man was almost perfectly still, save for the small orange glimmer of a cigarette moving periodically from his hip to his mouth. He dressed somewhat formally for the occasion, slacks, a coat, a shirt and tie, even a trilby to top off the ensemble. People like it when a man in his line of work dresses well, a lone sophisticated figure amidst a world of blood and grime. Slightly angered that his "uniform" for these jobs now hung heavy and damp upon his shoulders, the man still managed to take some solace in the pleasure of a job well done, and the silky warmth of the cigarette flowing through his chest. Lifting both hands to his face, he took a drag of the ever-shortening cigarette with his left, and with the right held a small leather square to the light of the store behind him. Unfolding the object, the man saw a familiar face stare back at him, one he had seen so many times before. "Detective James Warren." A mess of details danced about the paper hidden within the leather, but only the name stood out for him. This paper and leather construct somehow held within it and incredible power. Close down a bar for the night? Access the back rooms of your favourite sleazy establishment? Run a red light?... Kill a man? All these powers and more were granted to the individual that held this tiny mundane square, and why? "To protect and serve." The man closed over the object and took one final drag from the softly glowing cigarette, before letting it fall and extinguish on the inundated ground beneath him. Protect who? Serve Who? The people? The government? The scumbag in a bar that slips a few hundreds into your pocket? The man tossed the badge carelessly onto the sprawled form on the sidewalk beside him, a dark pool of liquid now exhuding from it and mixing with the rain before racing downward into the grate below. The man wasn't sure who James Warren had felt he served or protected, but he did know for a fact that the scumbag in a bar paid better, and that that scumbag was fond of a well-dressed man that can make a problem simply flow away, and down the drain.


I kept rowing away from the island. I had never rowed before, and it wasn’t long before my arms and back ached from my inefficient form. I put down the oars and stopped. With no more effort to give, and exhaustion setting in, I leaned back inside the hull of the boat and rested. I had planned only to relax, but perhaps inevitably, I fell asleep. I don’t fully know how long I was asleep for, but I was woken by a thud. The boat rocked fiercely. My arms instinctively grabbed the side, and my eyes jolted open, as panic forced me into consciousness. “Are you okay?” a voice came from above. I looked up to see a tall man with a thick beard leaning over the side of a boat some twenty times the size of my own. “Yeah. I think,” I replied, a little hesitantly. I turned my head, trying to get my bearings. Over my left shoulder I could make out a small island I assumed were the Kadear Coalfields, but I was now too far away to make out any details. “You look like you could do with some help. Can we give you a lift?” the man asked. I nodded my thanks. The man reached out a hand, I grabbed it, and with one quick yank of his broad arms he pulled me and my bag aboard his boat. I looked around. There were maybe five or six crewmembers milling around, currently all staring at me with intrigue. “Welcome aboard,” the man said. “The name’s Kedrick.” I thanked him. “Ferdinand,” I replied. “Where are you heading?”. “Kadear Coalfields,” he replied. “No,” I stumbled back. “No. I’ll go back in the rowing boat.” “You’ll die if you go back out in that boat,” Kedrick replied. “I just came from the Kadear Coalfields. That’s where I’m trying to get away from.” “Why? Are you a criminal? Are you wanted there?” I could see Kedrick ready himself for a fight. “No,” I replied quickly. Technically it was a lie. I was a criminal, officially. But not in the sense of right and wrong. However, now wasn't the time for nuance. “You’ll see when you arrive. Things at the Kadear Coalfields have... or are changing, very quickly. And right now, it’s not safe for me to be there.” Kedrick relented. He seemed to either believe me, or just feel sympathetic to the desperation in my voice. “I’m not changing course for you,” he said. “We’ve got a delivery to make. That said, if we see a ship coming away from the island, I’ll wave them down, see what we can do.” I had little choice but to agree and so we continued to sail; the very island I was trying to escape slowly getting bigger in my field of view. About twenty minutes later we saw one boat heading towards us, and I excitedly suggested we get his attention. Kedrick hushed me down. “That’s Robertson’s boat,” he said. “You don’t want that. He either won’t take you, or he’ll rob you and throw you over the side.” It was a sudden moment of realization that I was lucky to have landed upon Kedrick’s boat. Not all merchants would’ve been so kind. I returned to silence, thankful for my sanctuary. Another boat came into view a few minutes later. I looked to him and he simply shook his head dismissively. However, moments later he spotted a small trading vessel leaving the beach. It was a much smaller boat than his own, but still sea-faring. We waited as the boat nimbly tacked up the winds towards us. “Ah, Alessia. She might help you,” the man suddenly announced. He instructed one of his men to grab some flags from the back of the boat. The crewman set off and started enthusiastically waving them in the direction of the other boat. The boat noticed and began changing course towards us. As the boat drew closer, I could see the boat was being guided by one woman. She stood by the wheel calmly steering towards us. Her long black hair came down just past her shoulders and billowed calmly in the breeze, creating waves just like the sea. She wore a thick jacket, with large puffed sleeves, and black denim trousers. Around her waist was a small tool belt that seemed to carry various knives, matches, and a few other useful items. “What have you got for me, Kedrick?” the woman called out from the boat. “Alessia, I’ve got a passenger for you,” he shouted back to her. “I’m not a ferry,” Alessia groaned. “I don’t really care for living passengers. I’ll take him if he’s dead.” Kedrick laughed heartily. I did not. By now the boats were side by side, and one of Kedrick’s men threw a rope across to Alessia. She tied it to her own boat, pulling them together. Kedrick walked to the edge with outstretched arms. Alessia hesitated for a moment, before raising her own arms with a relenting smile Kedrick reached ver the small gap between the two boats and hugged her tightly. “Got a guy looking to get away from Kadear Coalfields, and we’re heading the wrong way for him. Thought you might take him,” Kedrick suggested. “Where does he want to go?” she replied. “Anywhere,” I interrupted. “Just not there.” Alessia looked me up and down, inspecting me like she would any cargo. “What’s in it for me?” she asked. “Some company?” Kedrick replied. Alessia laughed. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” “He’s probably got something of value on him. And if nothing else you can put him to work. You’ll get free labour all the way to your next destination. Just throw him the odd fish that you catch.” Alessia scrunched her face in thought. She studied me intently, before finally making up her mind. “Look, I’m heading to the Bluekira Ministration. You can sail with me to there if you want. I won’t charge, but you work while you are on board. You can have some water, and we can catch fish. But otherwise, you don’t get paid. You work when I tell you too, you rest when and where I tell you too. And most of all,” she paused and took a step towards me, “if you even think about doing something stupid -- robbing me or attacking me -- then know that I will beat you to it and have no problem cutting you open like I clean a fish.” She smiled “And you’ll get to see. I can clean a fish really quickly.” She took out a knife from her tool belt just to drive home the message more clearly; the metal blade glimmering in the sun. As threatening as the contract was, it was safe passage. I walked up to the side of the boat. “Agreed.” I offered out a hand. She looked at it, ignored it, and turned back to Kedrick. “This guy does anything stupid, then you’re in trouble.” Kedrick raised his hands as if to accept the responsibility. And with that, I climbed over the side of one boat and stumbled clumsily into the other. \ It would be a full day-and-night’s sail, and Alessia put me to work immediately, sending me into the hull to rearrange the cargo to make things easier when we arrived. Upon my return, she asked me to try and catch some fish with a small line and hook. I had never fished before, and Alessia seemed to enjoy watching me attempt to figure out the process. I got the distinct impression that she had no intention of me catching anything sometime soon, that this was some kind of lesson in humiliation. After watching me ineptly dangle a hook into the water for around half an hour, she finally wandered off from the helm and came down to the edge of the boat. “You have no idea what you’re doing do you?” “That obvious is it?” I replied, trying to appear more amused than embarrassed. “Take it you didn’t have to catch your own food back at Kadear?” She took the small fishing line from my hands. With such quick ease that I was unable to follow her actions, she unraveled the string and set the hook down into the water. She let out more and more of the string as the line disappeared behind the back of the boat. “You want to make them think the line is a fish. It’s a weak breeze today, so you may need to pull it in really slowly to get the speed right.” “How will I know if I’ve caught anything?” I asked. She let out a small laugh at my expense. “You’ll know.” She placed the string back in my hand. “I don’t have a spare, so if you let go of that, you’ree going in after it.” With my humiliation achieved she sat down, resting on the side of the boat next to me. “So Kedrick,” I began, “he had a crew with him. And you seem to have a big enough boat for one.” “A crew is a hassle. It’s simpler this way.” “A hassle?” She paused for a second. “How many traders you met?” “I used to talk to them a lot actually on Kadear. They’d land on the beaches, and I’d try and chat to them, find out where they’d been...” “Yeah, but have you ever *really* met them? Ever traveled with them?” she asked. I shook my head. Alessia continued. “Things can be pretty rough out here. It’s tough, physical work. You have no real home. And there’s always the risk of some physical violence. So that lifestyle, it tends to attract a certain... type of person.” She stopped. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. And so I pressed further. “What kind of person?” With a shrug of her shoulder she elaborated,“Big tough men who think strength is what’s most important. Guys with bigger biceps than brains. You get guys like that on your boat, and sooner or later at some point, they get it in their heads that they should be the one running the boat, ‘cause they’re stronger, and they can lift more. Don’t get me wrong, I can handle myself in a scrap. But they’re always going to be taller and bigger than me, and ideally, I’d like to keep my boat for as long as I can.” She looked out to the sea, as if unsure if she had said too much. “I just can’t be bothered with all that macho shit, you know?” I nodded and smiled at her. “You let me on board though.” “Yeah. Don’t think you’ve got the ability to be violent in you though. Plus, I sized you up. I’d win pretty comfortably.” I chuckled, and attempted to hide some small wounded pride. Our conversation was interrupted as I felt a pull on the string. I announced it excitedly, and delicately reeling it in, with the help of Alessia’s guidance I lifted a fish out of the water and dropped it to the floor of the boat. I raised my hands in celebration. Alessia laughed it up, and grabbed a small hammer. “Do you want to do the honors?” she asked. I looked at her confused. “You hit it. To kill it.” she added. I looked down at the fish. It flopped backward and forwards awkwardly on the floor, desperate for some kind of purchase. Alessia took my pause as reluctance. She bent down and with one swift swipe hit the fish across the head, killing it instantly. She picked it up by the tail and handed it to me. “You’ve got a long way to go.” That night Alessia slept in the small quarters tucked within the hull. I remained on the deck. However, she provided me with some blankets, and with some maneuvering of some crates, I was able to create enough of a shelter that I slept relatively soundly. I slept soundly enough in fact that it was Alessia, and not the morning sun, that woke me the next day. “We’re about two hours away,” she said. “I’ll need your help when we get closer. There’s a small washroom in the quarters so you can freshen up. Feel free to use a towel.” I headed down into the hull and proceeded to wash and change. Finding a pair of scissors, I spent much of the next hour painstakingly trimming my beard into a more acceptable shape. It was a difficult task, with only a small mirror and the rocking boat throwing off my attempts at accuracy. Normally I would be clean shaven, be as presentable as possible. But such luxuries weren't possible currently. By the time I rose to the floor of the boat again the island was well and truly within sight, and I could make out people at a small stone harbor. While I had heard of and seen drawings of a harbor, I had never seen one myself. It was the first true sign that I would soon be on an island that was not my own. This island I was about to enter was truly foreign to me. Once we arrived, I begun helping unload the cargo to the harbor steps while Alessia spoke to the islanders. As soon as I placed each crate down, a man or woman dressed in plain blue trousers and shirt picked it up and carried it away in complete silence. While the traders spoke freely with Alessia, I could not help notice that none of the blue-clothed men or women dared to even make eye contact with either of us. It was as if they were incapable of noticing us. With the crates unloaded, I turned to Alessia and thanked her for the safe passage. “How long are you planning on being here?” she asked. "I hadn't given it much thought," I responded. “I’ll do you a deal,” she said. “I’m doing a run to Pearl Docman, but then after that I’ve got to head back this way for the next delivery. It’ll be about five days there and back. You get to the edge of the harbor wall when I come back, at let’s say sunrise, on the fifth day, you can have another lift onto where I’m heading next.” I hesitated for a second. “It’s very nice of you to offer...” “Just say yes or no,” she interrupted. “Yes,” I replied quickly, in case any hesitation be taken as rudeness. “But... I thought you didn’t want a crew?” “You’re not crew. I have to pay crew.” She turned and jumped back onto her boat. “Dawn, fifth day,” she called out as she untied the ropes and the boat gently eased off from the harbor edge. I turned to face the island. The large stone harbor curved around me in a perfect panorama, allowing me to watch the islanders going about their day. While they were the minority, wherever I looked, I could see those same men and women in loose blue clothing. The other islanders seemed relaxed, enjoying a the unexpected warmth of a winter morning, but the blue-clothed workers darted back and forth, carrying boxes and delivering cargo. None of them seemed to ever stop or talk to anyone. I had no idea what to expect from my time on the Bluekira Ministration, but I had chosen to discover the archipelago for myself, and initial ignorance was part of the journey. I began walking along the harbor wall towards the island. The exploring had begun.


# 1. The Bet “It’s all in the feet. See? See how much he’s kicking? Can’t conserve a breath like that, no sir.” Maggie looked up at the man swinging from the high branch of Hangman’s Tree. She felt a twinge of sympathy, but mostly anticipation. A pocket watch ticked slowly in her hand. “You’re wrong, it’s the swinging. Puts too much pressure on the neck, squeezes all the life out. Watch now.” Otis approached the hanging man following the swinging death arc with his arm. “And how, pray tell, is he supposed to stop swinging when they kick the bucket out from under him like that?” Around a minute earlier, the lawless men had put the poor bastard to the noose and removed his last lifeline. It was a common practice, but far less likely to break the offender’s neck than traditional gallows. Otis turned to Maggie and scoffed. “Core exercise.” “Core exercise?!” Maggie spat in a futile gesture. “You stop the swing with your abdomen, sucking it in like this.” Otis made a big show of sucking in what little stomach he had. “Stiff as a board, conserved energy, maybe buys you enough time that someone comes and lets you down.” “Oh, he’ll be stiff as a board alright. What do you recon? Under three minutes?” “Under three minutes, hah. No one has gone that quick, not even you.” Maggie rubbed at the black scar around her neck where the rope had cut in. “That a bet then?” Otis laughed, a hollow sound. “Oh, you bet it’s a bet. An easy one at that.” Astride powerful horses ten feet away, the men who strung the noose watched hungrily as the hanged man’s struggle grew more desperate. The leader kicked his horse and cantered closer to the dying man. “This is what happens when you try to two-time me, boy. It’s the last mistake you ever going to make.” Maggie moved closer, feeling a horrible sense of familiarity. “That you, Reggie?” she asked, mostly to herself. A mask covered the bottom half of the man’s face, black to match his hat and horse. As far as gallows theming went, Maggie thought it got the point across, even if it was a bit overplayed. Otis floated circles around the hanging man. “You think everyone is Reggie. Can we keep to the matter at hand?” He glared at the condemned. “Will you hold still for one minute?!” Maggie ignored him, staring down the leader. “It’s him, I’m sure of it.” Otis stopped his pacing for a minute to look over. “Well, if that’s Reggie, he sure is looking well.” “Hate in the veins will do that, keeps you young just to spite all the people who want you dead.” “Well I’m sure there’s more than a few of those. Why do they need to do that anyway?” “Do what?” “Tell the nearly dead why it is they had to die?” “Assuaging a guilty conscience, I guess.” Maggie returned her attention to the hanging man and the pressing matter of their bet. She circled, willing him to die just a little faster. The pocket watch in her hand ticked slowly forward. “Two minutes thirty,” she called out. “Amazing that damned thing still works. The ethereal plane won’t let me fix my damned hat, but you can pull a watch out of your pocket and it still ticks.” Otis’s hat skewed to the left, slumping down over one eye, permanently on the verge of falling off. “Yup, the afterlife’s a bitch, Otis, and it’s about to get a lot worse for you.” She pointed a finger at the nearly deceased as his frantic swinging turned to spastic jerking. “Ah, put him out of his misery,” cried one of the hangmen. Maggie looked up in surprise. It was hard to tell with the mask covering most of his face, but the man who had called out sounded young. “Reggie’s recruiting kids these days?” The leader gave a disgusted snort at the idea. “Shut up, I’m trying to enjoy this.” “You think that’s a pervert thing?” Otis’s eyes widened. Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Really? At a time like this?” “Can’t tell with the mask, but I bet that sick son of a bitch is licking his lips. Criminal and a pervert. This town really does take all types.” “Even after all these years, Otis, I will never understand what catches your attention.” “Nobody deserves this,” called the young man. “Someone, shoot him and end this.” A nervous tremor crept into his voice. “He keeps standing up like that and we’re going to have a second hanging today.” Hangings were the closest thing Maggie and Otis got to entertainment, but one was enough. “I hear you. Look at the conscience on this kid. A little late, I’ll admit, but nice to see in the youth. Maggie, you know this doesn’t count, right?” Maggie shrugged. The horseman in the lead shot a glare, attempting to silence the younger man. “Two-fifty-five.” “Maggie, this shit does not count!” “Maybe you can put that in the rules of the bet next time. Watch his hand.” Sure enough, the young man’s hand moved to his pistol, hesitant at first, but firm when it found the grip. He looked at the leader and then to the dying man. “Fine, I’ll do it myself!” The young man drew his pistol, hardly taking time to aim and pulled the trigger. The shot rang clear across the plains and struck the hanged man dead in the face. At the same instant, the hanged man appeared beneath the noose, looking much like his former self, but suffused by a pallid, green glow and semi-transparent. pulling his hands up in front of his face. “No!” he shouted. Maggie clapped her hands together. “Down to the wire, but that is two-fifty-seven. I believe you have someone to welcome, Otis.” “Maggie, I said this didn’t count.” If Otis’s face could have flushed, it would have. Instead, it remained the same omnipresent ethereal gray that accompanied the dearly departed. “A bet is a bet, and you know what that means.” “You’re a real son of a bitch, Maggie.” “Fair is fair, break it to him gently.” Otis shook his head and walked over to the newly deceased man still holding his hands over his face. “You can put your hands down, kid. It’s too late to block that shot.” “Stay back!” Shouted the man, keeping his hands up. Maggie wanted to savor her victory, but she was watching the horsemen. Already, a scuffle had broken out and the gunman with a conscience was taking a beating. The gun was out of his hand, forgotten in the dirt as two men kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. “You’re lucky I know your pops, or you’d be swinging next to him right now.” The leader landed a savage blow, causing the kid to spit up blood. Meanwhile, Otis knelt next to the newly deceased, trying his best to explain what was never an easy concept. “Where--” the dead man faltered, trying to gasp for air, but finding none. “You’ll get used to that. What’s your name?” “Adam.” The man’s eyes were wide, searching his surroundings. “Well, Adam, welcome to the not-so-great beyond. Name’s Otis, and that’s Maggie.” Maggie continued watching the horsemen as they slung the battered man over his saddle and prepared to ride back towards wherever they had come from. The leader turned, his mask down, no longer needing to conceal his face. Maggie glared at him, willing some force from beyond to let him see her. Reggie, leader of the Hosh Gang, and the man who had hung her, gazed longingly at Hangman’s Tree. “Rot in hell, boy,” he whispered, before spurring his horse and riding into the rising sun.


Trigger Warning: Mental health and implied self harm/suicide attempt. Not graphic. Not once in all of Her days of the concept called living, had She ever felt this way. This way, or that way? There was a right and wrong to things, so this must be wrong. It has to be or else She’s not perfect. Not once had She sank to the floor, wallowing in such grief that would rather be unspoken by communities and mothers. “My child isn't such a fool. She’s in tip-top shape, right sweetie?” Really mother? A mother’s image of perfection never fit her mold, impaling holes through the rubber where edges were too sharp and the rubber could not bear much more. Because no, a little girl is not to find herself, but to be found by another, forced into a persona of which does not match. Alas, no She did not understand. This concept is called mental health? That’s not real right? Because the doctor fixes everything, right? There’s no reason for Her to feel this low because She lives the perfect life, right? Don’t weep or complain, child, you ungrateful scum. There’s more to cry about than the clouds blanketing the sky, than the leaves growing old and falling from their place in the tree. Get up, you lazy bum, you have no need to be tired. But She can’t. Every little fiber of Her being protest against movement, has eliminated all feeling to where She becomes a shell of Herself. Hollow. Empty. Scared. The debilitating urge to get up, to fight against this, this pain . She’s fought that fight though, losing to Herself again, and again. Where did Her strength go? Why is She lying in bed, liquid diamond streaks flowing down flushed cheeks every day until the sun goes down? Why is the sun allowed to sleep, but not Her? Question after question playback like a broken record in Her head days on end until Monday seems like Thursday and everyday is dark, melancholy and uneventful. No one has yet to take notice of Her absence, even Her closest friend, He, has not even attempted. Or has He? She wouldn’t know, Her phone being lost in the large expanse of Her room, yet again, She could not find the will or way to search and respond. Are you okay? Is She okay? She thinks so, there’s no reason for Her to not be. That was a lie, She should stop lying to them. To Herself. She is not okay, but asking for help is a burden, difficult and unimaginable. Because She’s perfect. Perfect people don’t ask for help. Right? She can’t be perfect. She is not perfect. She will not be perfect. No one was designed for that level of greatness, even those who get close will always fall short. But She’ll never know that, She’ll never see imperfections as realism. Instead they’re all pointless mistakes. Her brain competes with itself, day after day, a small voice occasionally reminding Her, you need help. But help is for the weak, right? Strong people fight their battles and move on but She can’t. That’s when She finds Herself in the bathroom. The task to get there seemed exhausting, though the walk was short, Her capacity had depleted. Sitting on the cold tile woke Her up, although only minutely. Deep thoughts become deeper as She scrambles to find an escape. An escape from the whirlwind of...nothingness. She had forgotten what it was like to feel, anything. Sitting quietly turns to sobbing hysterically, trembling and screaming, until She finds Her release. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe She needed to feel something to feel something. She did. And it became routine. She never was the same, not at all. Her mind overflowed with anxiety and meaningless meanings to the world around Her. Even when He came back. He talked to Her, listened to Her, fought and cried with Her. He was dedicated, yet She was never truly thankful. Thankful that He took the time from His day to be Her guide when She wasn’t in Her right mind. It was supposed to help... right? Something must be wrong with Her, because the days aren’t supposed to feel the same. The parties, the amusement parks, the teenage fun, it all felt, the same. The same as in no happiness or genuine smiles. He noticed, but kept a distance. She wanted to cry out so badly, hold onto Him and never let go because Her body felt as if it would escape itself if she had no tether. Simultaneously, She also wanted to push everyone away, force everyone to leave Her, allow Her to drown in self pity alone, if that’s what you could call it. At least, Her mother called it that. Months pass and eventually enough is enough. She’s tired, exhausted, gassed and wrung out bone-dry by the task called living. She did it, every day, with Her release but even this day. This forsaken day, it wasn’t enough. And so She was done. She did not think twice about Him, or Her mother, or anyone else because they would not think twice about Her. To Her assumption. There would be no difference, with or without Her. So She took one last walk. She walked and walked until the sun settled just above the horizon, emitting a lovely orange hue across the town. And oh, how She wished She could see it, even smile at it, one last time. Arriving at the lake didn’t startle Her, there were no thoughts left for Her to think, no feelings to feel. And it was at that moment there was peace, peace and the gentle beating of Her heart. That, and approaching footsteps accompanied by panting breaths. She closed Her eyes tightly, wishing whoever it was to go away until they stopped running and became a looming figure, towering over Her. The silence was heavy, until He spoke. He spoke and She listened, Her mind waking to the realization of Her actions as He spoke. All it took was Him. Begging, asking, pleading with Her. “Please, don’t do it.”


The world was a cruel place for him. He went through the days, wearing a smile, fake and forced. There are those who have to wear a mask, simply to fit in with everybody else. Play a role that society wants them to play. That was his plight. It had gotten easy for him to pretend he was happy. A simple smile. “I’m just tired.” But play a part for long enough, one begins to forget who they really are. The lines between reality and fantasy begin to blur. It’s nice to have the fantasy of happiness for a little while. But when cruel reality strikes its tactless hand, it can shatter everything one holds dear. It was another typical night for him. Nights were even tougher for him than the daytime. He was typically alone, so he would remove his worldly mask and let his true self be free. He laid in bed, crying himself to sleep like he normally did. There was never a reason. It was easy to lie to the world around him. He did it every day. But he could never lie to himself. He was just sad. No one said or did anything to him, but that could have been part of the problem. People assume that when there is no one, that also means no one to cause pain. This is true, but it also means there is no one to end the pain. And for him though, this was more than pain. It was suffering. Seemingly endless. Unnecessary. Unrelenting. He would eventually fall asleep. Not because of choice, but because of exhaustion. He woke up the next morning, cursed the world and begrudgingly worked to prepare himself for another day. He went to the grocery store, where he felt out of place. Everyone was so...happy. They would smile to each other and wish each other “Good Morning,” a phrase he considered to be an oxymoron. When someone said as much to him, he forced a smile and would simply say “Morning.” He moved on, sulking through the aisles, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. He didn’t know these people, nor did he want to know them. There was no reason to act happy. Act like everything was right in the world. Act like he belonged, even though he knew he didn’t. He continued walking when he spotted a woman up ahead. Something was different about her. She was dressed like everyone else, but he could tell there was something very different about her. He was tempted to go talk to her, but he knew how much he hated when someone did that to him. Walk up and strike a conversation for without a good reason. Instead, he took in her simple beauty for a second and then continued about his shopping. He walked past her just like he did to every other person in the aisle. But as he walked past, he heard someone say “Hey,” in a simply wonderful voice. He turned around to see the girl looking at him. She smiled and said “Morning.” The smile he now wore was genuine as he simply replied “Morning.