The experiment was set for the 2nd of March. Group Captain Lionel Berkeley, RAF, watched as the subject, a USAF serviceman, finished clasping the helmet to his yellow pressure suit. Berkeley both admired and pitied the young American for participating in the experiment, and sincerely hoped that he had volunteered of his own accord, rather than being volunteered by his superior officers. The other occupants of the chamber, one British and two American scientists, scurried about as they completed the final preparations. “Airman Vance. The Project Zipgun test today involves a brief jaunt between the twins, Bentwaters to Woodbridge. Step over to the pad here, please.” Berkeley motioned the serviceman to a glowing white square in the bunker floor, with an identical glowing white square in the ceiling above. Intricate, angular machinery surrounded three sides of the pad, bundles of thick cables running up into the concrete ceiling and down into the floor. Reel-to-reel computers churned and hummed along the walls of the test chamber as they diligently recorded data from sensors arrayed throughout the room. “Sir, permission to ask a question?” Airman Vance inquired, a hint of southern twang to his accent. “Permission granted.” Berkeley replied, coolly. “Am...am I the first...man...to go through, sir?” “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” The young airman fidgeted, wiping his gloved palms against the yellow nylon of the pressure suit pants, looking increasingly nervous. Berkeley continued, “What I can tell you is this, when you make the jump, you will travel over 22 kilometers in the blink of an eye, and be making a significant contribution to the technological prowess of the free world.” Airman Vance noticeably brightened at that, and stepped onto the testing pad. Berkeley shared the subject’s apprehension, though he was careful not to let those feelings bleed through to the surface. The Joint Experimental Operation had jumped to human trials rather quickly, but then, the race was on, after all. Who knew if the Reds were already blipping soldiers from Moscow to Siberia and back in similar experiments behind the iron curtain. “RAF Woodbridge, this is Bentwaters. Prepared for transmission, over.” The British scientist reported into a radio handset. “Copy RAF Bentwaters. This is Woodbridge, prepared for reception, over.” The radio crackled back. “Airman Vance, please close your visor before the jump,” one of the American scientists called out, and moved a pair of thick, dark goggles over his own eyes. Berkeley did the same, the polarized lenses dimming the brightness of the test chamber down to an eerie twilight. Airman Vance pulled the black face-shield over the front of his helmet, looking like nothing so much as a spaceman about to set foot on another planet. “Are you ready, Airman Vance?” Berkeley asked. “Sir, yes sir!” The airman replied, muffled through the pressure suit’s helmet. “Activating now,” the other American scientist declared, and hit the switch. The room thrummed with power. The white squares and the delicate arms of the machinery between them shined impossibly bright, and then somehow grew brighter still. Airman Vance appeared as nothing more than a vaguely humanoid shadow in the glow. Despite himself, and the protective goggles, Berkeley raised a hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the light. With a final electrical snap like an entire thunderstorm in a single moment, the lights dimmed, and the humming wound down. Berkeley lowered his hand from his eyes. The airman was gone. \*\*\* Music. Haunting, impossible music. That was the first thing he noticed as the blinding light of the test chamber crushed down to a single point in the center of his vision, darkness surrounding him, only for it all to come rushing back, but different, in a tidal wave of unfamiliar sensation. The second thing to go through his head, a bizarre, at first non-sensical, instinctual response, was: act natural. Airman Taylor Vance, USAF, test subject for Project Zipgun, a project he knew dangerously little about, appeared to find himself in a crowded bar. The establishment was dimly lit, with rough cement walls, and a high and wide countertop jutting into the middle of the space. A man stood behind a counter, a tangle of metal like beer taps behind him. So far, so good. This, Vance’s brain could handle. A giant praying mantis stood next to the counter, on the opposite side from the man. This, not as much. Not good. Not good at all. As Vance slowly turned his head, towards the music, more horrific sights filled his vision. A group of bulbous-eyed molluscoid demon children were playing the eldritch melody on pipelike instruments like it was Thursday night in a Nashville honky tonk halfway down Broadway. A bestial wolfish figure with gleaming eyes and long fangs sat nearby in a corner booth. At the bar, a man with a face like a spider’s pushed a cup to another man with a nose that folded upwards, like a vampire bat. Vance wondered if he was in hell. He swore that he saw the Devil, red skin, horned head, black robes, the works. And yet, far from ruling this dark and strange underworld, the fiendish being simply sat there, smiling and sipping a drink. In this strange place, even the Devil himself was just another customer. A man sat down next to Vance. He also wore a space suit, clear visor revealing an ordinary human face, and Vance wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying. Now, he considered that he might be hallucinating. Maybe the experiment had popped a blood vessel in his brain, and these were his dying moments. The man spoke a foreign language that Vance had never heard before, but the way the other spaceman slapped him on the chest and gestured to the bar was damn near universal. Okay. Act natural, he thought again, this time the instinct making more sense. And the good lord knew he could use a drink. Vance stepped through the crowd of surreal bar patrons, dizzied, worried each step could be his last. That either this hallucination would suddenly fade as the eternal darkness of death finally took over, or that one of the many monsters surrounding him would suddenly take notice of him, and the previously mundane activity of the hell-bar would cease as they all ripped him to shreds in a frenzy. He carefully watched the bartender pass a drink to a shaggy bear-like creature with a bandolier, but didn’t see any money being exchanged. His sanity felt suspended by the thinnest of threads over the unfathomable abyss of this entire experience as he raised two fingers to the bartender. A teenage boy, blond, and an older, bearded, white-haired man stepped down the stairs that Vance assumed was the entrance. He zeroed in on the two human figures. Felt his rapid panting for the first time, and began to take back control of his breath.These two, he could handle. Just a father and son. Maybe grandfather and son. Out for a drink. That calmed him. This was understandable. Just out for a drink. The other spaceman shouted impatiently, incomprehensibly, from the table Vance had come from. Looking down, the bartender had deposited two mugs of frothing, misting liquid in front of him. Act natural. Vance picked up the two cups, moseyed slowly back to the table. Two new patrons had joined the other spaceman, a woman with an enlarged head that Vance found distressing to comprehend, and an honest to God green martian with a suction cup for a mouth. Both started chattering away in different languages, and Vance’s new spaceman drinking buddy eagerly grabbed one of the cups. Vance felt the thread in his head fray further, and he searched desperately for the old man and the teenager at the bar to try and hold on for just a little while longer. He spotted the pair, though now the teenager was involved in a scuffle between the spider-faced being and the bat-nosed man. Vance began to shake his head violently. No no no don’t take away the only liferaft I’ve got right now, his mind babbled at him. Then, the grandfatherly figure that had been Vance’s last grasp on his sanity pulled a sword made of light from his dusty brown cloak, and cut the other two men to bloodied ribbons. The thread finally snapped. Inside the pressure suit helmet, Vance screamed. \*\*\* “RAF Woodbridge, did you receive? Over.” The static hiss of the radio felt like it lasted a lifetime to Group Captain Berkeley. The British scientist tried the handset again, now a hint of desperation entering his voice, “This is Bentwaters. RAF Woodbridge, did you receive?” A crackle. And then, with trepidation, “Negative, RAF Bentwaters. Woodbridge did not receive. I repeat, Woodbridge did not receive.” One of the American scientists pulled the protective goggles from his eyes, “My God, what happened to him?” Berkeley pursed his lips, staring at the now empty experiment pad. “It appears that you’ve...completely disintegrated the poor fellow.” The responding silence settled thickly over the room, broken only by the steady buzz of static from the radio receiver. Already in his mind’s eye, Berkeley could see some uncaring, aloof United States Air Force officer concocting an all too plausible tragic story to explain the young airman’s disappearance to his next of kin, and the needless, bullheaded stupidity of it all twisted like a knot in his chest. He sighed. “Shut it down, gentlemen. Shut it all down.


I am not my mother's daughter. Grandmother told me stories of her smile. How it could draw the stars from their hiding places. How it gave branches voice and the leaves color. I never told Grandmother I remembered it. I was too afraid the stories would stop. The stories were secret and my father did not like to hear them. “He does not like the reminder,” my grandmother would breathe between her loose strands of dancing grey. I knew she didn’t understand though, that he liked nothing more than remembering that smile. What he did not like was my tainting it. Me with my pinched mouth and sour milk smirk. I did not deserve to recall what he kept sacred and tucked away. I could not find it in myself to resent him for it. I do not recall when my memories started. Time blends and animates the snapshots of framed photographs with distant voices, piecing together a fabric that never entirely existed. I cannot discern from the rosy cheeks and autumn dusted hair hung upon my walls from the live action reel of cold curls wet against my face and striped rain boots that never stilled. I do not know when one me became another, and I could find no evidence of the transition. Grandmother took me to the lone hazeltree behind my dad’s patchwork Buick, the sole object of his affections. We’d sit beneath its spindly trunks, and I’d pretend she was mother and I knew she would do the same. She’d plait my mousy curls, pretend they were golden, and tell me of The Little People, even smaller than me. “Are they beautiful?” I’d wonder aloud, and her answer never changed. “They’re like us in that way. Some are so filled with beauty it will make your chest ache just to see them. Some have lashed eyes so intense you could swear they hold constellations.” She never spoke of the other ones. The ones I wanted to hear about. The ones that weren’t beautiful. I drew them myself when I could, their upturned noses and limp, uneven shoulders mirrored me in a way I could not bear to look at. “Are they good? The ones that make you ache?” I would ask. I wanted them to be cruel, to take that beauty and tarnish it, to render themselves so unbearably monstrous that not even their perfect faces could remedy it. “Ah, love. They do not think of goodness as we think of goodness. Can one be wicked if they don’t intend it so?” “Wicked?” “The words to unlock a heart are not given freely, my dear. Even we keep ourselves so far inside it is difficult to be found.” I knew she thought of mother when she told me how they’d sing. They did not sing to make the flowers grow, and they did not sing to make the moon wax or wane. They sang because they liked it and that was that. Grandmother kept mother alive in The Little People. She was hidden in every story. I made it my place to find her there. I used my own memory as a map, though as untrustworthy as Grandmother’s tales. I knew the danger of memory. Lies that disguised themselves as truths. I’d lay awake atop my blankets in the summers when the sun refused to set. I’d listen to the wind blowing through the hawthorne’s branches, a sound I knew masked the dancing feet of The Little People. Grandmother told me they made no sound when they danced, that their nimble feet brushed the thick moss with but the soft whisper of a kiss. I did not know at the time that kisses could be whispered. My jaw worked on the ringleted apple skin that fell from Grandmother’s knife. She had piled them in a heap of red just for me, our secret bargain. “Do you think they stole her away? Because she sang so pretty?” Grandmother’s head twitched imperceptibly towards the gaping doorframe. She sighed her wrinkle-studded sigh. “Your mother sang and sang to that tree. I think, if they have stolen her away, she knew what she was doing.” Grandmother spoke so softly, it was as if she were not speaking to me at all. I did not understand then, with my grubby little fingers and my dirt-coated apple shavings, what Grandmother had said to me that day. The phrase “she knew what she was doing” was one I had nodded at sagely, as though I had grasped its meaning. When I had learned, when I sat at my window sill thinking on all the pieces of her I had collected, I hated Grandmother a little for saying it. I had not then known the cruelty of truth. The betrayal weaved itself into each of my subsequent memories as if it had always been there. I could not untangle it. When I watched mother’s steps mirror my own, feet flying past half-shy spring tulips, my unwilling kite trailing behind us as though our laughter were not enough to convince it of flights’ worth, her smile held something it had not held before. Something heavier than even the kite’s fear. I wanted to forget that new look, that addition to memory now settled as fact. I wanted to know the mother as I knew her before, the one who’s guiltless voice had filled my nighttimes, the one who had loved me full to bursting and who had not thought twice of my changeling face. That’s the thing about truth though. You don’t get the option of forgetting. I had not thought the way she had left us could change anything. With mother taken, snatched away, I was left an unfortunate creature, an example left to warn others of the whims of fate. Victim is a far comfier guise than blame. I no longer liked to play truth. When Grandmother told me stories I kept them locked away and sought nothing from them. Mother’s tree became my tree, and it kept me company where shades of her had previously. I found myself more bold than before. I was no longer afraid to ask after the twisted, ugly, wicked Little People. “Tell me of the Other ones. The ones that scream where there should be song, and the ones that lurch where there should be dance.” The distant mountains sent winged messengers to whisper in hushed lyrics the tales Grandmother now told me. It was in this way I learned that darkness nurtured in people a curiosity masqueraded as horror. “Tormented souls are often mistaken for cruel and wicked, child. The hate built in their chests twists and bends the body that found no weight in innocence. Remember that.” I worried Grandmother could see the hate that had twisted my heart, that circled my body in visible blackness, warping my crooked form before her ancient eyes. She had told me once of beings that held so much beauty it could make your chest ache. My ears of that time, naive and un-wintered things, had not known that life’s goodness could make you ache as much as its badness. We all fancied that tree as our own, fancied that those beings beneath its roots somehow preferred the lumber of our footfalls to another. They did not even know we stood there. To me, mother had become a fiction as grand as the myths that came from sunkissed countries. She was as unreal to me as my present father, his rolled button-downs stained with the evidence of time spent with his Buick. I thought I had known her. The way her shoulders twitched when I hung from her neck and the way her laugh rocked us both, my ribs cramping from my heart’s fullness. I had known her. The way she would run her fingers over the spot on my back that made me squirm, the knowledge of it’s secret existence shared only between us. I thought I had known her. The way her face would still when I pressed my nose to her neck, her eyes heavy and lidded with concentration, sketching that moment behind her eyelids. To love a patchwork person, sewn together with the threads of half truths and childlike trust, leaves a hollow emptiness, a vast blackhole of questions. Loving her memory was not like loving her. Wherever she had gone she was sure to have changed as surely as the moon of tomorrow would change from the moon of my right now. Father called me changeling, an insult. Grandmother called me changeling, a reassurance. I am not my mother's daughter, my mother sings with The Little People in their rooted halls. Her love was as fickle as a spring night, and I know now it could not have been mine unchanged for long. But it had been mine.


The Ruins of Itegan The Hilfonders are a noble family and stewards of the western plains region called Ousia. Named after the river Ousia that flows through the center of the region and eventually runs into the Great River Cardine upon which lies Edhellin the shining Capital of the Rendallian Empire. Aela Hilfonder is the second of 6 children born to Richard and Cynthia Hilfonder. She is olive skinned and raven haired. She has huge, dark brown eyes that were filled with excitement and life. Ever since she was a small child, she loved to learn. If it were up to her, she would spend all day every day out exploring the grounds of their keep, River Watch, and spend all night exploring her father’s library by fire light. She loved the stories of the heroes of old. The ones who slew dragons and conquered entire lands. She loved stories of adventurers who would board a ship destined for a land never before seen by man. But her favorite stories weren’t in any of her father’s books. Instead, they were the children’s stories and fairytales that granny ‘Em, a nanny of sorts that Aela’s father told her has taken care of all the Hilfonder children since before even he was born, would tell her before bed. The stories that spoke of a time long gone. A time when magic filled their world. Where men and elves and dwarves and all kinds of people lived together in harmony. A world where the trees could talk, if only you were patient enough to listen. She loved them so much because they made her world seem so much more exciting, because many of ‘Em’s stories happened in places that were familiar to her. ‘Em’s stories often took place in the ruins that dotted Ousia, and all of Rendallia for that matter, before they became ruins and were just cities or towers. She always ended her stories with something about how there may still be hints, traces of magic left in those ruins for the curious and pure of heart. Much to her mothers disappointment, Aela never grew out of her love for those stories. And, having graduated from the university at Edhellen, she has dedicated her life to exploring the history of Rendallia, specifically the ruins that were so often the setting of Granny ‘Em’s stories. This was it, Aela had started her first real archaeological dig of a ruin not too far from her home, Riverwatch, named Itegan. Despite the volume of ruins in Rendallia, little was actually known about them and their origins. Itegan was a smaller site as it only contained evidence of one structure, however based on what remains of the structure it appears to be a rather large tower or possibly a fortress. Aela was thirteen days into what she had planned on being a thirty day dig, less than half-way done and she and her small team had already unearthed dozens of pots, tools, and even a handful of smashed human remains. The state of the remains led Aela to believe that the tower collapsed around whatever poor souls inhabited it. The odd thing, Aela noted, was that there was no evidence as to how or why the tower fell. No evidence of a siege, or even a battle. In fact Aela found no weapons at all anywhere near the site. Which seemed, to her, very odd considering the purpose of a tower this size would almost certainly be militant in nature. She also found a number of what appeared to be some sort of work stations, the purpose of which she couldn't quite figure. All in all she couldn’t wait to bring these samples back to the college and discuss her findings with her old professors. On the twenty third day, Aela and her team had broken for a late lunch. They were all anxious to continue the dig as they may have just uncovered a subterranean level to the tower that had yet to be explored. They were just in the process of cleaning up the meal when hundreds of miles away Erick the tavern keeper heard the sky open and saw the lights start to form in the sky in the direction of the Capital Edhellin. For Aela and her team the noise was so far and faint it barely registered for any of them. What did, however, obtain their undivided attention was the faint at first, but intensifying with every second, green and purple light that started to glow from every inch of the site. At first Aela was simply enthralled. She couldn’t believe her luck! It was her first official exploration of a Rendallian ruin and she seemed to have uncovered some sort of anomaly. Could ‘Em have been right? Was there still magic laying somehow dormant in the ancient ruins? If so, how exactly had she uncovered it? Unfortunately the rapid fire line of thought was cut short when the ruins which were now positively iridescent, began to shift and float and rearrange themselves. At this point Aela began to worry for the safety of her team and herself. “Run!” she shouted. “Towards base camp! We don’t know if this stuff is dangerous!”. So they ran, Aela and her 9 dig assistants ran as fast as they could back towards their camps where they had slept the last twenty three days and watched as the toppled ruins of that ancient tower began to somehow reassemble itself into a massive spire. Huge stones buried by dozens of feet of dirt and rock began unearthing themselves and Aela couldn’t help but think about how many weeks of digging it would have taken her and her team to uncover even a single one of those stones. Then the ten archaeologists were left standing there in awe, staring at the newly risen tower. It was minutes before any of them could muster a word but in the silence they were all thinking the same things. Did they somehow start this by digging up some long forgotten artifact? Or was this a worldwide phenomenon and they just happened to be in the right place at the right time. And finally, was this the only resurrected ruin, or had Rendallia suddenly become home to dozens of rebuilt ruins both known and unknown.


Winter, black as obsidian, crawled over the rooftops of Manchester like the shadows of a dying day. The skyline was littered with cranes from half-finished building projects, crooked steel fingers thrust out from the belly of the earth. The streets from Atlas Fitzgerald’s apartment were slick with ice, waiting to collect crumpled cars and broken bones. Broken bones. The memory scratched the inside of his skull. One year ago today he woke in his hospital bed, his pelvis bruised black, and set up this account to tell his tale. To tell of the voices he heard. But then friends came with cards and flowers, doctors and physiotherapists imparting wisdom and caution of a long road ahead. So he travelled the road and forgot all about the voices, until winter came, when he was out of hospital and his friends and family no longer visited as they once did. Back home, mobile with the aid of crutches, they had Christmas to prepare for and you’d be ok now, right Atlas? Do call though, honestly it’s no trouble. Left alone in the city, away from the hills and trees and starry skies, suffocated by short days and long nights, he heard them again. *Atlas*. Just his name, reverberating around the corners of his room, crawling up the walls. *Atlas*. He had to go back. He had to. Atlas stopped eating then, or rather he ate just enough. Each morning he stood naked in front of his mirror and was horrified by the sight of what he was becoming. His eyes began to retreat into dark sockets, his arms and legs thin and sinewy, his ribs a staircase of bone. *Atlas*. He had to go back. His friend Laurie had told him he looked awful the last time he saw her. She had tried to call but he did not answer, did not respond to text messages. At last, as spring threatened to kiss life into the world, she stopped by. He held the door open, only slightly, dressing gown draped over skeletal frame. Through the front door she could see into the living room, see the coffin he had built. She tried to push her way in but he held her back, which gave him some comfort that he still had some strength left in him. His friends kept trying to reach him after that, thank you Laurie. But he did not relent. He did not respond. And soon enough they left him. They gave up trying. The coffin was a rudimentary plywood box, narrow and tight. Every Sunday throughout spring and summer he tried to squeeze himself in and close the lid and each time it would not go. He could not fit. And so smaller he became, thinner and thinner and *Atlas* still echoed in his mind. He became dizzy, and started to use his crutches again. Until at last, this Friday just gone, he fit. It was time. Atlas packed his bags in the morning and, uneasy on his feet, made his way out of his apartment and took a taxi to the train station. The taxi driver looked anxiously back in his rear view mirror, as did the throngs of commuters and passengers at Manchester Piccadilly who watched him hobble, pirate-legged, toward the train to Clitheroe. He was relieved to be aboard, sat down again, and allowed the hulking vessel to carry him on his way as the world swam around him. A little girl boarded with her mother at Blackburn, and both sat and watched him warily the rest of the journey. At Clitheroe station, Atlas caught another taxi, giving the driver vague directions to take him into the heart of the Forest of Bowland. Turn left here, turn right here. Eventually he told the driver that this was the place, thank you very much. So uneasy was the driver that he did not argue about leaving this skin-and-bones man on a layby in the woods. Atlas cared not, for the voices grew louder now. He clambered over a nearby wall and disappeared into the thicket of trees. At last he found the stream that he remembered following just over a year ago, which lead him to a rushing waterfall and the opening to the cave system. He pitched his tent and tried to sleep through the night although little sleep came his way. The voices, the *voices* all through the night whispering his name. Dawn broke and Atlas changed into his caving gear. A thick red boiler suit, black harness that seemed now heavier and more cumbersome. Flashlight. Sky blue hard hat. He made way for the opening, a yawning mouth that called him to his prize. The cave system was familiar, yet more difficult to traverse than it once had been. Piecing together memories of his last journey here, he made his way, noting the usual formations and turnings. The Main Chamber, Drinkwater Cavern, The Hangman’s Passage, The Big Squeeze. And there it was. That small unchartered hole, newly opened and as yet unexplored. He removed the hard hat, the harness, the boiler suit, until he was dressed only in his tight under layers. He wielded a flashlight that he pressed into his mouth and a single claw hammer and, arms outstretched, he slid into the tunnel. *Atlas*. He was surprised by how easy it was this time around, by how much more room he had. He felt the thin material of his undershirt begin to tear against the salty rock but the voice was louder now, and no longer rattling through his mind but echoing from deeper within the tunnel. *Atlas*. Some thirty metres in he halted. There, just below him, scratch marks lined with blue. His hard hat. One year ago, this is where he became stuck, where he lay as the rescue crew tied his ankles and pulled him, pulled him, pulled him out. His hard hat scraping against the roof and floor of the tunnel, his legs popping from their sockets as he screamed in pain while they pulled him still. But now, now there was an inch or more room all about his head. He pressed on, dragging his lithe frame deeper into the earth. *Atlas*, *Atlas, Atlas*. The tunnel closed quickly around him, hard earth pressing against him on all sides. The flashlight served him no purpose and he spat it out, clearing his airways as the air became thicker and harder to swallow. He clawed his body through the tunnel. The roof and floor scraped him, shredding the clothes from his frame, the skin from his bones. He could not turn his head, so tight was the gap, but still he pulled himself into the darkness, tasting the sweat from his outstretched arms that squashed against his face. And then he could not move. *Atlas.* His pelvis was stuck. He tried to drag his body through but the pain was unbearable and he had no strength left in his arms. *Atlas*. There was no light, no air, no room to move, one hundred feet or more down a passageway that would not fit even the slightest of children. *Atlas, Atlas, Atlas*. “Atlas.” The voice, the thing that called him, breathed deeply on his prone, outstretched arms. The breath was hot and sticky. He felt a light tickling move across his hands, his arms. He realised at once that what he felt was the creeping fingers of another, the one who had whispered his name. The fingers inched down, cold and wet, and touched the crown of his head where they lingered for a moment. And then they pulled away, and he felt the figure shift and scuttle further down the tunnel. He tried to speak but his mouth and jaw were jammed shut by his shoulder. His listened for the voice and found that he was alone. No voices, no one calling his name. Nothing but his slow and laboured breathing and a heart beating so fast and so desperately that he felt his bones pulsating. He felt his face heating up and he gasped for air, trying to push his lungs out yet his ribs and his back were pinched against the rock. He tried to breathe. He tried. To breathe. He could not. Breathe. One year ago this day Atlas Fitzgerald created this account to tell you his story, of the tunnel that called his name. But he could not let it go. He had to find the devil in the dark. No one will find the man Fitzgerald. His tent will not be there when friends come, their last hope that this would be where he went. At the opening to the tunnel, where they had pulled him screaming and crying for his mother a year ago, they will not find his boiler suit or his harness or his sky blue hard hat. A camera inserted through the tunnel will not find his body jammed between the rock. All trace of Atlas Fitzgerald will be dissolved into the earth. I know this to be true because I am the voice that lingers in the corner of the room. I am the fingers that crawl within the gloom. I am the one who plants the seed from which roots break free and creep into the earth, and from which long stemmed flowers reach out and dance towards the sun. Whisper your name. Tell me the thoughts you cannot shake. Tell me your desires, your wants, your needs, that you bury like a body in a shallow grave. Whisper your name, and I shall make them so.


Growing up - read the poster hanging above Mrs. Langer’s second grade classroom. Below the poster sat a small plant and - Sam’s favorite - a hamster relaxing in a hamster house. Sam was a member of Mrs. Langer’s classroom, and every chance he had, he ran - as fast as he was allowed - to catch a glimpse of Mr. Hammy, the classroom hamster. Last week, Sam had even bought Mr. Hammy a toy - a small green and white colored ball. When Mr. Hammy was presented with the new toy, he squealed with joy, holding on to the ball with his tiny claws, chewing on the rubbery lining. Sam always delighted in seeing Mr. Hammy playing with the gifted ball, until one day, when Mr. Hammy no longer seemed interested in playing with it. “Mrs. Langer?” Sam wondered, “Why isn’t Mr. Hammy playing with my ball like he used to?” “Well,” explained Mrs. Langer, “Mr. Hammy is growing up. And as you grow up, toys that you used to play with, you may put away and no longer play with. Mr. Hammy is becoming a big, strong adult hamster.” “Huh.” Sam responded with disappointment. After school that day, Sam returned home and was greeted by his older brother and parents. His older brother, however, quickly retreated to his bedroom to do homework. Watching closely, Sam copied him by retreating to his own bedroom. Toys were spread out all over the floor of his bedroom, toys that he loved and enjoyed playing with. This is going to take a while , he thought to himself, as he started to gather the toys, one by one, and place them in his toy chest. Once the toys were all in the chest, Sam locked the chest and slumped on to his bed. Now what? Sam thought to himself. He didn’t feel any better. In fact, without his toys, he was rather bored. Sam waited, as the hours slowly ticked by, until he could hear his older brother snoring in the adjacent room. Tip-toeing into his brother’s room, Sam grabbed his brother’s backpack, and quickly retreated back to his own bedroom. He then emptied the contents of the backpack onto the floor. Papers, folders, and books tumbled out from the backpack. Grabbing the book closest to him, Sam opened the book and began reading: “On Joseph’s farm there were a total of 40 animals - a combination of pigs and chickens. Joseph counted 100 legs in all. How many pigs were there, and how many chickens were there?” That’s a good question , Sam thought to himself. He grabbed another book and began reading: “One of the causes of world hunger is infrastructure instability. Poor infrastructure makes it difficult - even impossible - to transport food to towns or remote villages that desperately need it.” Scratching his head, Sam opened yet another book: “The US national debt has reached levels not seen since World War II. As of 2019, US debt has grown beyond 17 trillion dollars.” Yawning, Sam closed the book and crawled into bed. Unfortunately, sleep did not come easy for Sam that night - he ruminated over all the things he had just read. Pigs have four legs and chickens have two, but could I possibly know how many pigs and chickens there were? And how would I be able to build enough roads and bridges to allow starving children to receive the food they desperately need? As for 17 trillion dollars, Sam wasn’t sure exactly how much that was, but was hopeful that perhaps the coins in his piggy bank would be able to cover that. I’m not sure I like this growing up thing . Sam would rather have spent the night bringing out his toys and playing with them one more time, but, as Mrs. Langer said, in order to be a strong grown-up, you need to put away your toys and deal with grown-up issues. While not feeling content, exhaustion eventually overtook Sam, and he slept through the night. The next morning Sam grabbed the books he took from his older brother’s room and transferred them to his own backpack. He dragged the heavy backpack all the way to school, before letting the backpack fall off his shoulder in Mrs. Langer’s classroom. It was free-time, and one of Sam’s best friends immediately approached him. “Tom and I are playing monster game! Come join us!” Sam declined, taking out one of his newly possessed books from his backpack. “I need to work on solving these problems.” Throughout the rest of the school day, Sam declined to join in on the fun and games with his classmates, and instead focused on the problems documented in the book. But despite all the pondering and contemplation, head-scratching and struggling, Sam wasn’t one inch closer to solving any of the problems. Defeated, Sam buried his head into the book. “What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Langer. “Last night I put away all of my toys, and I started reading my brother’s books. They're full of problems, and I don’t know how to fix any of them. I really just want to play with my toys and my friends, but I also want to grow up, like Mr. Hammy.” “Oh? Well let’s go see what Mr. Hammy is doing right now.” Sam and his teacher walked over to the hamster house and took a look. While the green and white ball was still sitting by itself, Mr. Hammy was instead in a hamster wheel, squealing as he ran and made the wheel spin and spin. “I just placed the wheel in his house this morning, and he’s already loving it,” Mrs. Langer started. “Growing up doesn't mean you have to throw away all your toys and only focus on adult problems. As you grow up, there may come a time where you no longer enjoy playing with a specific toy, but that doesn't mean you need to stop playing all together.” Surprised, Sam asked Mrs. Langer, “Does that mean I can still play with my friends?” “Of course you can! And you don’t need to stop just because you’re all grown up.”


All the students in the room wore full aprons to protect their clothing. They needed to because they were a group of wiggly 2 and 3-year-olds in a cooking class. My daughter scheduled the class at the local community center for my granddaughter and me when she knew I was coming to help her during the arrival of their second child. "You'll love it, mom,: she said. "You and Clare can have some fun together and make cookies." Eight little squirming bodies stood on chairs around two long tables with seven moms and a couple of grandmothers holding onto them as though they were wild horses waiting to take off for a race. I was a little excited, but the grandmother next to us didn't look too excited. The teacher started the class by announcing to the children they were going to make ginger cookies. Their cooking tools-which consisted of a small bowl, a measuring cup, a little measuring spoon and a long wooden spoon for stirring-were placed in front of them. After the teacher dropped a ball of shortening in their bowls, she explained how white and sticky it was, and told the kids not to touch it-which translated into toddler language means, "This will feel great between your curious little fingers, so dig in." Our job, as their assistants, was to hold the bowl until she was setting the next ingredient before them, which seemed like a long time. It was time to dip their cup into the sugar bowl and measure out the sugar. When I released Clare's hands she grabbed the cup and dug deep into the sugar bowl. As she lifted the cup, sugar went on the table, on her apron, in my face and a few granules actually went into the bowl. Mixing was a little difficult because the shortening mixture was so thick that the adults had to do the stirring while the little ones discovered how good sugar tasted. The next ingredient, the teacher said, was what really made the cookies sweet. It was a big cup of brown molasses that was passed around to each child. They were to measure 1⁄2 cup of molasses into the shortening and sugar mixture. The grandmother next to us had come along with her daughter and granddaughter, but I could tell she was focusing on the mess more than the fun when her granddaughter wiped her curly locks away from her forehead with her sticky little molasses hands. Fortunately, I had kept the molasses contained to our bowl, so when it was time to add the flour Clare only had sugar in her hair. It seemed that the reason the grandmother wasn't having such a good time was because she was trying to keep the area clean while the mom was trying to help the child have fun. When the cookie mixture was all finished, the teacher told the children they could put flour on the table to roll out the dough. Flour went everywhere all at once before any adult could stop it. I grabbed my camera and took pictures through sprays of white flour and gleeful children. The grandmother beside me, at this point, had to walk away from the table. The teacher told the children to take the mixture out of the bowl and roll it into a ball. Hmmm, taste and feel time I took the mixture or as much as I could retrieve from Clare's sticky hands and rolled it into a ball and gave her the rolling pin. She loved that part and at first did quite well, but after a while the mixtures was very thin. Every time I tried to turn it over she protested. The grandmother had come back to the table this time to get things under control. She began rolling out the cookie dough while the little girl was wailing to roll the dough. Finally, the cookie cutters were distributed. The grandmother helped the little girl next to us cut out perfect cookies. Ours were vague images of cats, leaves, pumpkins, acorns and a few unidentifiable shapes. The cookies went into the oven while the little ones continued to roll the rolling pin in the flour. When clean up time came, each child got to choose a wet sponge in their favorite color. Just so you know, when wet sponges and loose flour meet it becomes a sticky mess. After a while, the mothers took over and helped the children out of their chairs, and cleaned up the mess while the teacher read the children a story. They were so cute sitting on the floor with flour in their hair, molasses stuck to their eyelashes, and dough underneath their fingernails, but at least their clothes were clean. As for the grandmother next to us, she looked like she needed another adult to talk to, so I introduced myself. We talked a little about raising our own children. She told me about how she taught her daughter to cook when she was little. She looked happy when she related several cooking mishaps to me. The class at the community center was not necessarily about teaching toddlers how to make cookies. It was more about giving parents and their child time together, teaching coordination and having fun. I asked the grandmother if she remembered the kind of cookies she and her daughter cooked when they were younger and she said, "No, not really." Then we smiled at each other. With flour in our hair, molasses on our blouses and ginger as our perfume, we knew these moments with our granddaughters were more about making memories than making cookies.


Maybe inevitably, the census checks were unsuccessful. We spent three hours pouring through books, but the answer was simple. If Sannaz was anywhere in the North, he wasn’t in any of the outer villages. The only place left was the main town, the largest settlement on the island, closely guarded like the base of the South. One of Kendra’s lieutenants was kind enough to let us stay the night in one of the abandoned buildings. We had nothing but the stone floor to sleep on, but we were at least protected from the element. A strong wind howled through the old building, whistling through thin gaps, and banging loose siding. In between the gale I could hear the fringes of the war. Boots would trample along the ground in unison, a percussive drum beat, as they marched off to the fight. The returning steps came a few hours later a tiny bit out of sync, and occasionally quieter. Every so often I could hear orders being barked, or soldiers shouting out updates from the front. But never anything louder. Never a gunshot. Between the noise and the hard floor I only slept for the briefest of moments that night. As we rose the next day, I was certain Kurbani had slept no better. Yet she seemed to take a poor night’s sleep better than me, already standing and ready to go within moments of the sun’s rays creeping through gaps in the shutters. “What’s the plan today?” she asked, as I lazily pulled myself off the floor. “Head north. Check the main town.” Kurbani opened the shutters and studied the outside world. “How do you think they’ll have gotten on in the South?” I shrugged. “Hopefully better than us.” “At least you’ve learned a bit more about the war and what’s happening,” she said to me, her gaze still staring into the morning sun. “True.” I stood next to Kurbani feeling the warmth hit my skin. “Looks like it’ll be a lovely day.” “Would be anywhere but a battlefield.” Kurbani scrunched her face. “We should get going. Would be good to reach the town by lunchtime.” We trekked northwards through the pastures. The further we walked the further back in time we trod. As the North had forced the South back, Northern land became peaceful again. However the scars of the early war remained. We passed a crater two metres wide. Grass slowly regrown over where an explosion had once dug a hole in the ground. At a town I could see bullet holes peppering the building; hundred year old puncture marks etched as record. Yet today, children played outside the same walls. After a few hours we reached the Northern town. It was surrounded by a perimeter wall made of thick wooden poles, the trunks of spruce and pines drilled into the ground. There were two soldiers posted on the path as we approached, however they seemed more relaxed than those further south. While they still maintained their decorum, their eyes seemed less focussed, their backs less straight. They somewhat apathetically took our names and waved us into the town. The other side of the entrance, I could see the full settlement. The town descended a hill towards the coast, before reaching a long spit of land that stretched out, open seas on three sides, a half-dozen boats moored in choppy waters. The records building was about halfway down the hill. We entered and were greeted by a young woman with beady eyes, and sat behind a large oak desk. Behind her several rows of shelves stretched off to the back of the building. She stood up upon recognizing our clothes. “Welcome. We don’t often get neutrals in here. How can I help?” “We’re looking for a fugitive, from another island,” Kurbani replied. “We have reason to believe he may be on this island, and might very well be in this town.” “Have you had many boats arrive lately? Last couple of weeks?” I asked. The woman scrunched her face in thought. “A few. Just trading vessels mostly. One group offering to help with the war effort-“ “People come to help?” I asked. “Lots of people see cause in helping a just war. They’d glandly lay down their lives to support the Sun God.” A brief flicker crossed my mind. But I let it pass. “Do you keep a record of who arrives?” “Oh yes. I can get those files for you. I’ll be back in a moment” The woman turned and disappeared behind a shelf. There was the sound of shuffling books, and the noise of a frame a bit too short reaching for a shelf a bit too high. Eventually the woman returned, opening the ledger as she walked. “This is all boat arrivals in the past two weeks,” she placed the book in front of us. Kurbani and I leaned in to check the details. Only basic information was recorded. The size of the boat, and the given reason for the visit. We knew the rough size of Sannaz’s boat, but one quick lie as to why he was here and he would disappear. There were only a handful of boats, but even among those there were too many to be a possible alibi: come to help with the war, come to offer medical services, trading goods. The list went on. I grimaced as I finished the list. “Not seeing anything. You?” Kurbani studied the page for a moment longer. She leaned in, scouring each line carefully, before her face withdrew. “Nothing,” she sighed. “Thanks,” I said to the woman behind the desk as we left the building. My head sagged as I stepped back outside. This trek across the length of the island was all to discover how quickly and easily Sannaz could disappear. We had no description, no knowledge of where or when he landed. I looked around at the faces of the townspeople passing us by. Anyone of them could be the man we were looking for. He could walk up to me right now, stand within a metre of me, and I’d have no idea who I was looking at. I looked back up the street towards the town entrance when I was distracted by a voice. It was a man, shouting. But not with rage, but instead a controlled rhythm designed to get his voice as far as it could travel. I followed the sound to a crossroads of two paths until the words became distinct. “...the blasphemers in the South. They are mere weeks away from the solstice. A ceremony of utter filth. Of contempt for all that is good.” The speaker wore a thick yellow robe that must have stifled in the summer heat. Yet it was the fervour in his voice that seemed to make his brow red and slick with sweat. “We must do all we can. All of us. To make sure they cannot hold their celebration. While the brave men and women on the battlefield do their bit, we must do ours. Bake the bread that feeds them. Sew the clothes they wear. Mend the spears they use. And most of all, keep them in our prayers.” I walked slowly towards the man, but stayed a few metres away and kept to the shade as he spoke. With each punctuation he’d throw his hands into the air, his head tilting upwards to the sun that beat down on his face. While many people gave little notice as they passed him, there was a small crowd gathered in front, including two soldiers whose heads were bowed, listening intently. “We will make the South pay for their vile heresy. And those of us who truly worship the Sun god will prevail.” There it was again. That same flickering thought with the woman in the records room. This time it clicked. The South were meant to worship the Sun God, but here two people said they were the followers. Initially, I didn’t speak.My face just scrunched as I continued listening to the sermon and my brain fought to process what it was learning. “The Sun God does not want summer praise when it is strongest. It craves the comfort of its followers in the Winter when it struggles for power. That is when the most sacred of festivals should be held.” My mind snapped back to reality about two seconds slower than my mouth. “That’s what this war is about.” The man and his crowd turned to me. “And who are you?” I refused to respond, caught in the oppressive stares. My eyes flicked back and forth desperate not to engage. “If you have something to say, speak.” The man said, stomping his foot. “You both worship the Sun God? Both you and the South? You both want the same thing.” “The heathens in the South do not worship the Sun God-“ “They do.” My voice was calm, but my eyes closed as I concentrated on every syllable. “You both believe the same thing.” “They do not worship the God if they wish to defile it with a festival on the summer solstice. It belittles him.” “You are killing each other over when to hold a festival.” One of the soldiers in the group stepped forward pointing at me with jabbed fingers. “We’re fighting for what they did to us. What they did to our families. Our friends. We’re fighting for our freedom from murderers.” “But why did that war start?” The man in the cape raised his arms wide. “The Sun God needs our strength in Winter, that is when we should praise him.” “But is that worth death? Worth starving over and living behind walls?” The soldier took another step forward. “We cannot seek peace with those who committed atrocities against us.” “Yes you can.” I paused between each word, but as I finished I felt a hand land on my shoulder. I turned to see Kurbani, she leaned in, her face pointing to me, obscured from the crowd. “Leave it Ferdinand. If wars could be stopped by a man shouting in a street there’d have been a lot less bloodshed.” A small corner of my brain knew she was right, but the anger in my lungs fought it. I took a deep, slow exhale, trying to vent the pressure. “You’re right.” I looked back to the man. “I apologise. I spoke out of turn. I will leave.” “Do. Go. Get out of this town,” the robed man said. “If you do not believe the war is just then you are no friend of the North.” The rest of the crowd joined in with various jeers. I could see one of the soldiers tighten the muscles in his arm as he screamed at me to leave. I backed away and headed down a small side street. The first few steps were slow, but as soon as I was out of sight I picked up my pace, not stopping until it felt as though we were out of the vicinity. Kurbani quickly caught up to me. “You were right. The words you said. Problem is, being right isn’t always everything. It rarely is.” I grimaced slightly. “So now what?” “Searching for Sannaz here will be like trying to find a particular fish in the ocean.” She looked at the town around us. “One quick lie and he could be anywhere here. We’d never find him.” “So we give up?” Kurbani leaned her head to one side. “Not give up. But not fight a futile fight.” She looked down the alley at the road where we’d just come from. “Even if that does seem to be your specialty.” I pulled my shoulders back, ready to stand my corner, before I realised that trying to do so would, once more, be futile. “My suggestion,” Kurbani said. “Head back. Let’s reconvene with the others. Maybe they had more luck in the South.” “I just hate returning empty handed.” I sighed. Kurbani folded her arms. “Sometimes that’s just how it goes.” I paused and thought over what she had said. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem to be taking this pretty well.” Kurbani smiled. “I want to see Sannaz caught so he doesn’t do it again. But I’m not going to just throw shit everywhere and see what sticks. We’ll find him. The smart way.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Sound like a plan?” I looked once more at the web of streets and buildings that surrounded us. I listened to the background conversations of a hundred different voices ricocheting off the homes. Eventually I turned back to Kurbani and gave a single, resigned nod.


Tom was a keen dancer and every chance he got he would practice in his local community center, dancing was his life, he always felt alive when on a dance floor, and during his dance days he liked to enter competitions which took him around the country, he just couldn`t get enough of this, but working in his local ice-rink was a place he also loved, watching the figure skaters doing their routines always helped Tom with fresh idea`s for new moves in his dance routines. Carol was a close friend of Tom`s which every Friday and Saturday evening at the local Ice-rink she would be there, chatting to Tom, yet Carol always had a soft spot for Tom, which he knew as she wasn`t exactly discrete about it and made it plain and simple to Tom, but Tom being Tom never fell into her trap, she was a kind girl, friendly funny, a bit plain, but nevertheless, she was a sweet girl. Tom was very good at keeping things at arm's length, doing his best not to give off the wrong signals then regretting it later, yet I think Carol knew this and as the same never pushed the boundaries, she 16 not far from leaving school so she had the whole world in front of her and Tom kept making sure that this was the case, so that she went down the correct path of life. One Friday evening when Tom was working at the Ice-rink Carol appeared as she always did “Hi Tom” came the sweet voice Tom looking up from a customer that he was handing out ice skates too spotted Carol “Hey You, are you ok?” replied Tom as she moved along in the queue he spotted someone with Carol that he hadn``t seen before, and as Carol approached Tom in his little cubicle Carol introduced Tom to Anne. Now Tom had seen Anne from a distance from time to time when walking in the town, but he didn't realize that she lived around the corner from him, all this time I`ve lived here and I have never seen her closer to home, he must be losing the plot he thought to himself, anyway Tom stuck out his hand to shake Anne`s hand and to say hello, she was quite petite and wow very pretty Tom thought again to himself. As like any other evening at the Ice-rink the evening came and went as fast as it started and Tom was busy collecting customers skates and he handed back their own footwear, he loved his job, meeting so many people it was to him the next best thing to going to a night club, eventually, Carol appeared with Anne, “Hi Tom, thank you for a lovely evening” stated Carol, at this point Tom looked at her in a strange fashion “A Lovely evening?” he replied, Carol went red in the face with embarrassment “You know what I mean” she replied, Tom handed Carol and Anne`s footwear and he replied “It`s a damn good job I understand what you mean Carol” with a cheeky smile. Allan, who is Tom`s boss came over to see him “A great night`s work again I see Tom” as Tom placed the final pair of ice-skates away he glanced at Allan “Yeah it seemed more busy than usual tonight” pulling the grid down to close off the cubicle Allan said “You`re working hard Tom, and it`s not going unnoticed my lad”, as Tom locked up he thanked for his boss for the kind words. The following morning Tom rose and collected his dance gear and headed to the local community center again, bag full of LP`s off he went, it was great to have the center to himself and eventually the music pounded out the speakers and Tom got down to his usual dance routines, as the music faded out and he went to change the LP over there was a loud knocking from the main entrance door. Tom, now all in his laced dancewear headed to the door, slowly opening it, he noticed Carol was there “Hey You” said Tom, as he opened the door wider he also spotted Anne, “Well what do I expect from this visit girls” asked Tom as Carol and Anne walked in, Carol mentioned to Anne about Tom`s dancing and she was quite intrigued and want to see what all the fuss was about, so the girls took a seat and watched whilst Tom started his dance routine once more. Time was now getting on and Tom had finished what he was doing for the day, and they all eventually left the building, Tom locking up as he always did, then collecting his back and LP`s stated to Carol that he had to get off, just before leaving Carol pulled Tom aside “Just a heads up, the reason why we came was that Anne like`s you, and I mean like`s you Tom” suddenly everything went quiet and Tom could feel himself blushing “Ok Carol thank you for that” and slowly he backed off and headed home. Days later, there was a gentle knock on his front door, as he approached and opened the door he came across Anne “Hello Tom” Anne said, Tom now leaning out of his door and looking for Carol, as he stepped back he asked Anne “Where`s Carol today?” at that point Tom could see Anne now going red in the face “Erm, I`m not sure really” replied Anne, so instead of being rude Tom asked Anne if she would come in “Yes Please” came a quiet reply. After a few hours Tom and Anne seemed to hit it off quite well, getting to know each other a bit better and their friendship was growing stronger, at this point Anne stated that she had to go, as she was meeting her mum in town, as they slowly walked towards Tom`s front door and opening it, he leaned over and gently kissed Anne on the cheek, and she also did the same thing back to Tom, for once in his life he had never felt this way about any girl until now. As time went on, Tom was occasionally invited for tea around at Anne`s place so that he could meet her parents, but as ever Tom was the nervous kind and never wanted to speak out of turn or really say anything stupid that would back fire on him, and from what he could witness her parents were slowly taking to him, which he thought was a bonus as getting on with any girls family is a task in itself, get that far and you cracked it, Tom always thought of it as an initiation test, if dad-approved you`re in there. Tom and Anne`s relationship was blossoming and things were going from strength to strength, yet at the age Anne was coming on 17 he didn`t want to rush things as she was at that young tender age when one evening after Tom had visited Anne, he could sense something wasn`t right “Is everything ok Anne?” he asked in a nervous voice as they stood at her front door saying their goodbyes for the evening Anne started crying “Hey What`s up Anne what`s with all the tears?” Tom asked in a gentle way, then came the sucker-punch as she leaned into him and resting her head on his shoulder, she explained they had to move, as her dad had been promoted and they wanted him closer to his workplace. This news devastated Tom, his whole world now falling part, finally finding someone he felt he could trust and love was now slowly slipping away, and the matter of it all Tom could do nothing about it, “Where are you moving too?” asked Tom in a wobbly tone of voice and now the tears started welling up in his eyes, as Anne explained it was like having a knife plunged into his heart. Months had gone by, and Tom occasionally walked passed Anne`s old house and trying to draw back the memories of what they had together, he was now starting to realize that life was such a cruel evil game, yet what could he do, he had no idea where Anne had moved too so the point of trying to trace her was pointless, even though his heart wanted her so much, he wanted to be that knight in shining armor to find her and rekindle their love that was gone. It had been 4 years now since he last saw Anne, yet he never forgot her, he knew she was the only love of his life and no matter how many lovers he had, even if he cared for each oth them Anne was always there a distant dream, and yet dreams never came true for Tom, his life his world was in tatters. On Tom`s 24 th Birthday he arranged a night out at a night club after work, he managed to get free tickets, so as it was coming to Christmas time and he was working on the spotlights on the ice-rick Christmas panto which he did love doing as Tom loved Christmas and the spirit of things, the pantomime had finished all the friends who were working also on the spotlights all headed down to the bar ready for the evening. Allan again came over to Tom “You never let me down boy, that`s why our business is flourishing, and it`s all thanks to your hard work” then suddenly out of the blue his boss handed him an envelope “Open it later boy” and smiled as he walked away, “Tom” are you ready buddy” came a shout from the bar, Tom looked over stuck his hand in the air to acknowledge whoever was shouting, and eventually Tom and his friends left the ice-rink and headed out to town. It was a brilliant evening, the drinks flowing, the laughter in the air, everything good, until a certain song came over the speakers a song that reminded Tom of Anne, he stood there looking at all the people on the dancefloor enjoying themselves, a small tear welled up in his eye`s, but he knew he had to move on, his dream had gone and nothing would ever fill that lonely gap in his heart again. Tom could hear his friends shouting him back to were they seated, as he walked over he eventually put a brave face and rejoined his friends and as he was facing them and enjoying the banter that was going on, he suddenly felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, as he turned he noticed it was Carol “Hey Carol, how`s you?” she flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek “Happy Birthday Tom” as they drew back Carol asked if he had heard anything from Anne “No....Not a thing” he replied and lowering his head, Carol raised her hand and placed it under his chin and raising his head, Carol could see how devastated he was and how much he was in love with Anne. But she knew no matter what she would say would stop his pain, she could see he was a broken man yet always thinking of other`s before himself and always putting on such a brave face, “Tom......I have someone I would like you too meet” said Carol, suddenly Tom grabbed Carol's hand gentle and replied “No, Carol.....I know you mean well and always been there for me, but I`m really not interested in anyone else” Carol grabbed his hand and said, “Tom, please come with me and trust me”. He stopped in his tracks “Carol, I really don`t want to do this” Carol this time grabbed both of his hand and said “If you don`t come with me Tom, I`ll guarantee you`ll regret this” so just to keep face and keep Carol happy in her little games he followed her, they both fought through the crowds of people standing around the dancefloor and heading to where Carol was seated with her friends, they were sat in a circled cubicle when they arrived Carol said to her friends “Everyone I want you to meet my best friend Tom, and it`s his birthday today” all Carols friends cheered and the odd one came over and kissed him When again he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, as she turned slowly his knees almost gave way he almost fell flat on his backside, he was now in the state of shock, as before he stood the most beautiful young lady he`d ever seen in his life, as he turned to look at Carol she raised her glass to him and said “Happy Birthday Tom.......You deserve this” Stood toe to toe gazing into each other`s eyes, was the last person Tom thought he would never ever see again.....It was his Anne, the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks she slowly put her arms around his neck and said “I thought I`d lost you forever” Tom gently kissed her lips and then whispered in her ear, “I`ve never stopped hoping and I`ve never stopped loving you”


or so this was my selfishness and ignorance that will lead to my untimely death. **The** hubris of men may come to a point of confusion, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy. This is my reality. I am not a god in the traditional sense, but a mortal man that assumed the role of a god. For a man to think that he is a god and that the follies of his kind no longer apply to himself are what caused me to be cast from the heavens. This is how my story begins. **No** common man has feasted in the presence of the gods, nor has any common man ever lain with a goddess. Such are the dreams of men. How I was able to meet the goddess of love and beauty, Aphrodite herself, is still a mystery to me. In the fleeting spring of years gone by, this goddess shone her light upon me, and after our first embrace we quickly became infatuated with each other. Her, the goddess of love, and I, a common, mortal man. For reasons I will never know, she would whisk me away to experience what I never could have imagined. Soon I would lose grasp of the reality of who I really was. **Days** turned into months, and those into years, as I would grow ever more proud and take more of my blessings for granted. Soon I would mistake myself for somebody other than a selfish, arrogant fool. I would come to expect the love of the goddess that took me in, rather than earn it with acts of equal merit and thoughtfulness. Instead, I would stand at the top of Olympus and stare through the clouds with a celestial clarity, pitying those at the base of the mountain, not realizing that I was one of them. I came to believe that I was on the same level as the gods, and that I deserved to be in the heavens. I forgot that I was only in the heavens because of the grace of my love, Aphrodite. The gods themselves could no longer tolerate this pride and arrogance, this self deceit, and had quickly cast me from the heavens... deservingly so. **As** I fell from the sky, I knew that I was as mortal as Icarus, and that my own ignorance was the cause of my plummet into the sea. Unlike Icarus who fell to his death, I had drifted away, only to be swept through the waves into the stormiest of seas, the darkest of days, and the loneliest of nights. When I finally arrived at the shore, I collected myself and made my way towards town, with a mind full of thoughts that ached with every step. As the days passed, and seemed to grow ever longer, my anger quickly turned into regret and self-pity. I began to walk through the streets, snickering at the commoners that I peered down upon, only in an attempt to disguise my own shame and emptiness. How could I have mistreated the most divine woman in all of creation? She was the embodiment of love itself, and I used to be able to call her mine. **I** never deserved to taste the ambrosia or feel the warm embrace of a goddess, yet a goddess never deserved a thankless mortal to receive without giving, to receive without singing her praises throughout the heavens, to receive without knowing the luck that had befallen him to merely be in her presence. Somebody as loving and selfless as Aphrodite needs an outstanding man... no! An outstanding GOD to care for her as she once cared for me. The euphoria she bestowed on me will never know an equal. She gave to me what many men will never know, what most could never dream. **I** had it all. I was truly a god, no matter how short my time may have seemed. I have enjoyed emotions and experiences that I never could have imagined without the love of a goddess. My own hubris and ignorance are what led me to where I am today, and I have no one to blame but myself. I cannot say that I am a mortal man and that I must be accepted for who I am. After experiencing the feasts of the gods and the love of a goddess, I shall forever search for something that will never satisfy what I had been accustomed to. Every morning that I wake to find that I am not next to my love, leaves me pondering what I am to do with this mortal existence. **If** my goddess, my one true love, cannot see the tears in my eyes, feel the sorrow on my breath, or know the remorse in my soul, she would surely never know the depth of my misery without her. If I am left to wander in search of earthly meals and an earthly woman, I will starve, beyond any doubt. I will starve, both physically and emotionally, before I found anything palatable enough to stomach my way through.


The ominous click of the door sealing shut was always the beginning. And Peyton hates it. This is when the monster comes Every night. First, that creepy loud click; then the dark inky shadows creep closer and closer to his bed. He jerked his soft blue flannel blanket over his head and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. ‘ You are brave, Peyton. You are a big boy. There isn’t a big scary green monster with ugly spiky black hair and glowing yellow eyes under the bed. Daddy killed him when we first moved here’ Peyton quietly told himself as he repeats what his mommy and daddy told him the night before. And he did believe them, he really did! It was just so hard to remember mommy’s brave words when that door, that huge dark heavy door, closed, Peyton frustratedly thought to himself. He slowly lowered his blanket, which was currently also his impenetrable shield, so that his round deep brown eyes could peer into the solid darkness of the room. As his eyes slowly adjust , he watched the prismatic red, blue and green light shadows, from his cool new Halloween strobe light, dance across his walls. It was mommy’s idea to help him be a big boy and sleep in his own room at night. But he didn’t have too, he reminded himself emphatically. if it is ever so scary that he can’t take it , then mommy said he can come in her room. Mommy said , he thought stubbornly to himself, as he let his small lower lip pout slightly. Even if daddy was a big meanie and said ‘ go back to your room Peyton. There isn’t a monster.’ Peyton mimicked as he scrunched his small face. Mommy would let him , he proudly thought as he contemplated if he should head to mommy’s room. Yes ! Yes he definitely needed to go to mommy’s room , he thought as a small shiver ran down his spine. He slowly lowered his protective blanket past the waist of his soft cotton Spider-Man pajamas and wiggled onto his belly to peer over the edge of his full sized bed, his soft brown curls tumbling onto his forehead as his head hung over the edge. ‘ Coast is clear.. I think .’ Peyton whispers as he tentatively lowered his small feet to the ground then paused cautiously to take another calculated look at his gigantic bedroom. The kaleidoscope of colors continue to make slow methodical circles around the room occasionally reflecting off the random shiny toy left on his floor. Then he saw it! The answer to his problem; HIS SPIDER-MAN stuffy ! He squeals to himself! It would protect him till he could make it to his mommies room. But he had to get to his Spider-Man and it is sitting next to his dresser across his room. ‘ Just great! ‘ Peyton groans as he realizes this monumental feat. This is going to require him to get onto the floor AND get to the dresser to get spidey BEFORE the stupid monster got his foot! It just wasn’t fair. Why wouldn’t mommy just leave the door open and the light on. ‘ Because you won’t go to bed my sweet boy ’ Peyton mimics as he remembers what his mommy told him before she closed that huge door . Peyton glanced again at the lone Spider-Man toy and began to plan the safest path to the doll. ‘First we will tippy toe walk VERY slowly,’ Peyton quietly instructs himself as he lets the kaleidoscope light illuminate his path, ‘ to the dresser, pick up spidey, crawl over the basket of nerf guns, then run as fast as sonic the hedgehog to mommy’s bed.’ Peyton announces in an exciting whisper. ‘ I got this.’ Peyton grins to himself as he delicately begins tippy toeing the first part of his perilous journey. Another small shiver works its way down his narrow shoulder’s as the chill from the hardwood floors began seeping into his small bare feet. ‘ Just four more steps .’ He exclaims as spideys soft red and blue fabric attire draws nearer. His small fingers swiftly secure the doll’s soft fabric arm and clutches the toy to his chest with a sign of relief. ‘ Let’s get out of here spidey’ Peyton whispers as he begins tippy toeing towards his basket of nerf guns. ‘ Just 4 more steps.. 1.. 2..3..4!’ Peyton meticulously counted the way him and daddy practiced earlier. ‘ We made it spidey!’ Peyton celebrates as his body performs his fortnight dance with fluent ease, ending with an elaborate ‘dab’. His small face crumbles into a fit of giggles as his slight frame doubled over in laughter. Once composing himself, And feeling quite confident since making it this far successfully, Peyton proceeded to gently place one foot solidly on top of his basket of guns followed by the next foot; each gingerly progressing him to his destination, the door. One hand firmly pressed against the wall and the other hand perilously clutches Spider-Man’s arm as his feet inch forward. Suddenly there is a low whining groan followed by the collapse of the nerf gun pile. A startled gasp barely escapes his mouth before Peyton tumbles off the top of the nerf guns and lands sprawling out on his hardwood floor. Every muscle in his tiny body froze as he realizes where he is and how perilous his situation was. ‘Don’t panic spidey. We are ok.’ Peyton assesses as his tiny hand feels along the grooved wooden floor to find his toy. Once he felt the reassuring soft fabric of Spider-Man’s arm, he looks around to see what his next move is. As his curious brown eyes look around, he discovers that his situation has gotten worse. ‘ This is bad spidey. So so bad.’ Peyton whispers in horror as he looks at his right bare foot that is millimeters from black spikey hair poking out from under the bed. ‘ RUN SPIDEY!!’ Peyton screams as he channels his inner sonic the hedgehog and races to his mommy’s bedroom. With one swift turn of the cold brass knob, a strategic jump into mommy and daddy’s huge king size bed and heavy sigh of relief; he is finally safe. ‘ We made it spidey.’ Peyton smiles to himself as he cuddles into his mommy’s warm soft back. ‘ Peyton.’ Daddy says in that unpropitious tone that Peyton dreads. ‘ ITS A MONSTER DADDY !’ Peyton passionately explains. ‘ Then let’s go check so you can go back to your bed.’ Daddy logically decides ‘ Ugggggghh’ Peyton groans emphatically as Daddy lets him climb onto his back for a piggy back ride to Peyton’s room. ‘ Where is this monster Peyton’ Daddy asks sympathetically. ‘ under the bed .’ Peyton answers matter of factly. ‘ Then let’s check it out. ’ Daddy encourages softly as he turn the smooth brass knob and flicks on the light illuminating all of Peyton’s superhero wall decor; Spider-Man posters, Hulk figurines, Captain America plaques , sonic the hedgehog fat head poster; all of Peyton’s favorite heroes. ‘ Let’s look under this bed buddy.’ Daddy reassures as he ruffles Peyton’s soft curly hair. the pair both squat down to their hands and knees and peer expectantly under Peyton’s bed. ‘ Be brave Daddy. We got this.’ Peyton stoically nodded as he firmly grips Daddy’s warm hand. ‘ We got this Son’ Daddy warmly confirms as they both lower their heads and discover the monster under the bed. ‘ ITS MY HULK STUFFY!’ P eyton squeals as he burst into uncontrollable giggles.


Dr. Piccoli monitored her. Months ago the excitement had leveled out, and he was able to check the dials and read the printouts without trembling hands. Now his agitation and anticipation were rechanneled into something like professional pride. “Benino, the triglycerides.” A young man kicked the floor, rode his rolling chair over to another console. “Accelerating but proportional, borchia . As always.” “Pressure?” “She’s pumping like a fireplug without a sign of relent. Totally sustainable.” “Very good. Nigi?” “Beta-somatotropins are perfectly stable, borchia . Drinking them down like mother’s milk.” “Excellent.” The doctor stepped down from his platform and joined a much older, hunched man at a small, wooden table to which he was handcuffed. He rested his hand upon the old man’s shoulder. “Dr. Abate... Ristoro. Please do not fight me any longer. We are so close, can you not see this? Just look.” He knelt beside him, extending one long arm to the woman on the vast steel table. Her skin glistened with health, muscles rippling beneath. Benino and Nigi drifted behind her sometimes like puppets, disappearing behind her proud breasts. “This is real, Ristoro. This is happening. All your theories, your dreams.” He locked his eyes upon those of the old man with an intensity that raised the temperature around them. “Our dreams, Ristoro. Our deepest, wildest dreams. We are so close! Why would you throw this away now?” The old man blinked blearily and signed. “I was wrong, Piccoli. This is wrong. If you won’t release me, let her go.” Dr. Piccoli stood up, brushed off his lab smock, then barked a math problem at the old man, who responded reflexively, clearly, before slumping to the table with a moan. Smirking, the doctor regarded the enormous woman who, even now, was growing to fill the room. “As I thought. Nigi! The proteins?” The shorter man laughed. “More than enough to feed three of her. Our largest problem is keeping this volume from decaying, and that’s well under hand.” Now the doctor permitted himself an excited sigh. The machine, his orchestration was running under its own volition now. There were no errors, everything was calculated and anticipated for, and despite himself, Dr. Abate could never condescend to give a wrong answer when asked appropriately. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the yellow alarm lights began to spin, silent though they were: the woman was nearing fifty feet tall. A viable, perfectly proportionate human being, operating in defiance of the square-cube theory and all known physics. Sufficient blood pressure, muscles powerful enough to move the bones dense enough to hold them. Everything, everything had been accounted for and it was all falling into place. She had been a model, already tall. The doctor had put out an ad in the local paper and she had answered. Would she like to be much taller? She would. How did she feel about tiny little men, he asked laughingly. When she didn’t respond, Benino and Nigi stepped in from outside, knocked her out, and prepped her for surgery, six months ago. “Just you wait, Dr. Abate,” he said over his shoulder. “Our dream is becoming a reality.” Long ago, in a bar not far from here, Dr. Abate had taken his most promising pupil out for celebratory drinks, after a revelation in cloning and growth. Campari for the young man, grappa for the older man, and the evening steadily descended into mischief. When a particularly tall woman walked by their table, both men realized a deeper, lurid bond, a fantasy for giantesses. The old man woke up with a hangover; the young man woke up with a vision. Her foot twitched. Dr. Piccoli ran up to it: her heel resting on the floor, her sole still reached a foot above his tall body. With tremendous affection, he reached out and placed his palm upon her inner arch. Electricity arced through his body at first contact. Her skin was warm and soft, gentle folds in the skin like waves on a calm day at the lake. “So glorious,” he breathed, running his hand over the ball of her foot. Above him, her toes lined up like a row of cute, perfect pearls, albeit larger than his head. The innocuousness of her slumber, the innocence of the unconscious woman... his heart melted and he forgot to breathe. And this, just at her mere foot! He looked back at Dr. Abate with surprise, awe, and burning love. The old man only buried his face into the sweater on his arms and shuddered. “My goddess.” He looked at her other foot, the gentle turn of her (huge) ankle, how her (powerful) calves ran up to her (tremendous) thighs. He stood--a full-grown man stood--between her feet, at the entrance of her legs. Everything, so familiar, so beautiful all on its own, and then... amplified! Made magnificent! Everything powerful, made more so! Everything sexy, even sexier! He would have his own giantess, his own goddess to love! He placed his palm over his mouth and struggled to control his emotions. The yellow lights switched to red alarms, accompanied by a low buzzing. Struggling mightily with tremendous longing, Dr. Piccoli tore himself away from her gate and ran to a console by her limp right arm. “Benino, Nigi: report!” They rattled off numbers, measurements, quantities, and feedback. Everything was optimal. There was no panic in their voices, no tremble that betrayed hidden information, an unforeseen flaw that would undo everything in calumny. No, everything was working perfectly! He glanced over at his former mentor, now motionless. More for me , he thought. A synthetic woman’s voice tinnily counted down from ten. The doctor and his two assistants froze in place and stared at the gigantic woman, still asleep. The countdown expired, the red lights turned off, and after all her contacts and catheters automatically disengaged, there was a moment of silence. “ Borchia? ” Nigi started, silencing at the doctor’s sharp wave. Long, shapely fingers twitched. A sweet, resonant voice moaned. The woman sat up. Her breasts swung ponderously from her biceps to her chest. One meaty arm swiped through space (Piccoli could hear the air succumb!), and she placed a hand to her brow, frowning, blinking. She raised her shaggy head and peered around the laboratory. “ Mia cara ,” the doctor called out, more bravely than he felt. It was one thing to see a ravishing woman, nude on your table for months. It was another thing entirely to see her enlarged, larger than a car, than a bus, and rising to a sitting position in your lab. So much power, so much mass... he gaped at her, his fists white-knuckling a handrail. Her head turned like a planet upon broad, round shoulders. Her thick lips closed as her eyes rolled down to perceive him, regarding him almost disdainfully from above one large and swelling breast, a bosom far over his head. And when she focused on him, he very nearly lost control of his body. At that moment, everything elevated from something amazing he couldn’t believe was happening... to something thunderously, potently real. “My giantess.” He stepped from behind his controls, walked to her right knee, slightly bent and raised from the floor. “My beautiful, lovely giantess.” Her eyes followed him warily, thoughtfully. “Are you with us, mia cara ? Can you speak?” Hesitating, he slowly rested his palm upon her knee. She bent it slightly: he could feel the jerk of stiff tendons activating, pushing hundreds of pounds of force to flex her calf, bend her ankle. He thought his heart might explode right in his rib cage. He was growing dizzy with lust, with love, with a fantasy realized. His grin hung drunkenly on his face. Raising one arm to her, he said, “It’s confusing now, I know! But I know you will learn to be happy. Please... let me make you happy!” The gigantic woman opened her jaws and howled. Faster than the men would have thought probable, she drew her heels in close, and her calves and thighs pumped with fearsome power as they straightened out. Her arms flung out and her buttocks launched off the floor as her head and shoulders shot through the ceiling of the laboratory. Benino and Nigi rushed to the little wooden table, freed the old doctor, and hustled him through the nearest exit. Before Dr. Peccoli, massive legs like old-growth tree trunks flexed and wobbled only slightly. Huge feet tensed and rolled just a little, large toes grasped at the floor, as the new body found its new center of gravity very rapidly. He stood only to mid-shin beside the woman. His tiny shined shoes planted beside her heavy bare foot, and her calf rose and flexed and pumped right before his nose. His heart was pounding, his cock was raging, and his mind could barely make sense of anything. “ Mia cara, ti voglio tanta... ” He reached up for her, pleadingly, full of nothing but desire. With a roar, the giantess tore the roof up and away. Her knee swung through the air and caved a wall in. Her other leg reached up impossibly high, her powerful fingers kneaded and sundered the wall like soda crackers, and within seconds she was sprinting across the landscape, running nearly as fast as highway traffic nearby. Her huge, full, round ass heaved and bounced merrily as she fled, and then she was gone. After a minute of shock, Dr. Peccoli ran to his private quarters and cried his heart out.


‘Thence ill-favored creatures, Elves and giants, orc-neas , Came into being... ' -- Beowulf Niki had never seen an orc before. She was taken aback by the grayish, mottled-green skin; the huge, hulking outlines of their bodies, and the massive tusks and fangs that protruded from their mouths. But the pointed ears looked a lot like hers, though more pronounced. Though she had been raised among humans, her half-elf heritage couldn’t be hidden without maiming her ears, and so her human mother had simply instructed her to wear her hair long. Sometimes, when the strands parted, people commented on the unique shape before she could cover them again. She’d heard stories about orcs--tales of murder and revenge and conquest. That was why the orcs had to be driven off when they came too close to men’s lands, and the vassals at Hedegaard Keep had, upon receiving reports, mounted their warhorses and rode out to rout and put down as many of the horde as they could. When orc patrols were seen, the lord’s men never hesitated, and they brought back gruesome trophies. The stories were best told at night by a fire, but during rests between playtime she’d swapped half-heard stories with the other children at the Keep--the stories always had a dark but thrilling edge that fascinated them. The stories of knights overcoming entire patrols on their own were sung in the Great Hall, even by those vassals who had been there for some of them. Strange that the thing separating her from being a regular human being was also shared by these grotesque creatures. Her ear points were more subtle, thankfully, and easy enough to conceal, but unmistakable. She’d never imagined orcs sharing such a feature. She couldn’t comprehend everything, but it gave her a cold sense of disquiet. As far as she knew, she was the only person the orcs had taken prisoner--the rest were dead, wounded, or driven away from the Keep. The only other captures were bags and parcels of dry foods, bolts of cloth, and some tools and weaponry. The orc bandits had also taken two carts--she’d used to ride them into town with some of the staff occasionally--to transport the goods. Each cart was pulled by one of the lord’s horses. She’d managed to keep them calm; the horses were not trained for war, only transport and easy riding, and that might be the only reason she was still alive. The orcs didn’t seem patient enough to win their trust or temper them. Of course, if she hadn’t been in the stable, helping the stable hands give the horses their food and water, she might have been able to run away in time. Dawn had finally begun to show faintly. Taking an old road, under a thick canopy of trees, it took a little longer for the morning to glimmer through the leaves. Niki could see ahead of her much better, but she could also see the rough, leathery creatures that had abducted her and their heavy weapons. To distract her, she kept her attention on the horses and carts, mindlessly petting a flank or checking a wheel to avoid their grim visages. They continued all morning, stopping to make her feed the horses and give them some water, and allowing them a little rest. They also ate some of their contraband, nearly a quarter of it in less than an hour--apples and berries, salted rabbit and poultry, deer and cheese and thick creamy milk, and barrels of cider and beer. She was too sick in her stomach, and her hands too shaky, to try to eat. No one offered her anything. In the late afternoon, they brought her and the stolen goods to a camp set near the foot of a steep rock face protruding with boulders and overgrown with moss and brush. Blackened metal grates over outdoor fires cooked pots of food or plain meat on the bone. Several tents were set up, and from the looks of the stacked crates and half-emptied bags piled outside them, they’d been here a while. Hideously large dogs or wolves slept in some tent entrances or paced outside and barked excitedly at them. She couldn’t properly contain the horses, who’d never encountered wolves nearly as tall as themselves, and much larger in body. She was commanded--by a harsh combination of indistinguishable yelling and hand gestures--to stay near the carts, while the orcs unloaded the plunder and met in the larger tents. She heard bits of rough dialogue--it all sounded like arguing to her--and caught some orcs putting away the items. She had to assume the bandits’ share had already been taken at lunch. She didn’t see them receive any allotment of the rest. In the later evening, Niki was taken into one of the large tents. Several orcs sat on the floor, on skins and furs, but a large, old orc--darker than the rest, wearing a thick, metal band around his head--told her to approach. At first, Niki froze. She’d understood the command, dry and gruesome but in her own speech. When she hesitated, the older orc repeated, “Come here,” in its gravelly, ancient voice. She slowly approached what she assumed was the king or chief, hands gripping her smock tightly, head ducked low. “You are elf?” the older orc said. She shook her head stiffly. The older orc conversed in their aggressive language with another in the tent. Then it said, “Show me.” He pointed at her head. She pulled back her hair--possibly admitting her natural enmity. Orcs and elves had often warred in the past, though living among men she didn’t know much about it. “Half-elf,” said the elder. “Mother or father?” “Father,” she said. He stood up and said raggedly, “I am Carguk. Orc-lord of the Dugorim . These--” he indicated the others in the tent, “my Buomaugh . Good soldiers.” Glaring into her with his piercing beady eyes, he said, “Your name.” “N-Niki,” she stammered, “of Hedegaard Keep.” Ulf, Hedegaard’s lord, had been her uncle. He had never acknowledged her as his niece, never spoke directly to her, even after her mother’s death. Niki’s mother had engaged in whoredom with a forest elf in her youth--all Niki was permitted to know about her father. But she’d been allowed to keep her mother’s rooms and many of her possessions, if not her title. She missed that tepid kindness now, surrounded by these brutish creatures. “You know the meaning, ‘Nee-kee’?” the Orc-lord said. “I don’t know.” While she had a ‘proper’ name, Yanne, daughter of Olfa, her mother’s pet-name was what she had always been called. “Elvish,” said the Orc-lord. “Poor Elvish. Man is worse than Orc, speaking Elf tongues.” She said nothing. “Elves and Orcs share lineage,” the Orc-lord said. “Long ago, the same ancestor--the only reason they spared you.” Then, “You may stay. You are like us.” She met his gaze and said, horrified, “No, I’m like my mother. I’m like my father.” “You are like the men?” it said. “You were treated the same?” “I was--mostly.” “And elves? They take you in?” “I was never--I never got to know them.” “Men see lack of blood,” the Orc-lord told her, “and Elves. But Orcs--we see the blood, even one drop. You are like us.” He said more, in his heavy, halting speech, all of it beyond her understanding as she tried to reconcile what had happened. But she gathered that she was being dismissed ceremonially. Two Orcs--huge and brutish, even among their own kind--flanked her. “Uloth,” the lord said, pointing to the one on the left; at her right, “Bashuk. They give you their tent.” Feeling like a prisoner, yet escorted like a guest, she was walked to a small tent, one she would expect was not big enough for one orc. Yet there were two sleeping mats, accompanied by a shared low, backless seat, pottery, and other personal items. From the tent posts, simple doll-like figures made from straw hung on twine. Bashuk said some command, pointing at the interior of the tent. Niki dropped onto a rug of animal skin. They left her alone. She dug her fingers into the soft skin and fur--bear, most likely. A great accomplishment for a hunter or knight--yet she imagined an orc didn’t flinch in battle even against a wild bear. At some point, they brought her food on a thin wood board, in well-used tin--the same food they had just stolen. It was the same food always sent to her mother’s room. From the same kitchen, hunted or purchased by the same staff that served Ulf of Hedegaard. Not knowing, perhaps, how much she could eat, they had erred on the side of caution and gave her enough to last for days--a salted shank of deer meat; half a chicken, eggs, and other ingredients cooked inside; both cider and beer. She swallowed down what she could. As she’d not eaten all day, she managed to consume more than usual at one meal. She drank more of the beer than she would have normally because she wanted to fall asleep and forget everything. But at some point, after sunset, they nudged her awake and made her come outside, growling, and gesturing and moving her along. Groggy, head, and eyes cloudy, Niki put together that they only wanted to show her around. She’d never been told the orcish peoples made fires, or cooked food--or that they used tools beyond weapons and lived in tents. She’d never heard of young orcs, but now she saw a few as they walked. The females were harder to spot, being about the same size and proportion as the males, but the chests sagged more among the “women.” Of course, they spoke harshly and were physically imposing, and fearsome, but they also spoke, and had names, and made things. The stories the knights would tell, about slaying entire groups of traveling orcs--how much were embellished? Did the knights even know what they were doing? Everyone they passed stared, but when her guides explained things, there seemed to be immediate acquiescence, though some continued perturbance. But there were no objections. Apparently, the lord’s decisions were final. And a little bit of a point to her ears was proof enough. . . . The ceremony was quick and held in the Orc-lord’s hall tent. The Orc-lord had assembled eight of the tribe, four on each side, and directed her to stand in the middle in front of him. Everything he said was in orcish, and every chant answered by the other participants was orcish. Only at the end of his speech did he say, “You are like us. Same blood. Very deep, it is the same.” She recoiled as they all unsheathed daggers or hunting knives and cut across their wrists--letting the blackish blood pool in a wooden bowl that was passed around to each. Even the Orc-lord cut his hand and let his blood drip into the mixture. She was given a knife. “Sis-ter,” came a rough, barely understandable voice behind her--not from the Orc-lord but one of the warriors present. “Cou-sin.” She didn’t make any noise. Tears came, as she pressed the blade against her flesh, across the forearm, and let it sink into her skin--let it start to twinge before she pulled the blade across the arm. A red line appeared. As the blood continued to build, she felt a sting of pain, too late. She didn’t cry as she held her arm out to let the blood fall into the bowl. The Orc-lord made each of them step forward and announced their names. Two she already knew. The others were Shelur, Uloth, Shagdub, Shamog, Durz, and Lagakh. To her, they were just sounds, but already she was seeing distinctions between them. The names weren’t necessary. The Orc-lord introduced her to the eight: “Urzulg.” She didn’t know what it meant. But she never knew what Niki meant, either. They took her outside and showed her to the entire tribe. . . . Wrist still wrapped in a bandage, though it had healed a long time ago, she followed the others in the woods, across a shallow trickle of a stream. Covered in a layer of muddied clay, even her into the strands of her hair, and to the nibs of her ears, she blended in well with the forest and her brothers who walked ahead of her. They were hard to keep up with but without her dress, her shoes, a walking cloak--all the usual amenities--she moved quickly and made up the distance. She was dressed like an orc--male, female, they all wore a few modest pieces of cloth, and the armor they made for themselves. She didn’t know how to make her armor yet, and she didn’t fit any of theirs, so for now she wasn’t weighed down at all. There were five of them in total. She wasn’t nearly as strong as any of them, but everyone contributed to the tribe, so Urzulg had to go on hunts too. Already she could wring a rabbit’s neck and shoot with a bow. “Ghob-uloth ,” the leader said. “ Mog, Bashuk sharog. Bolar grak murzush .” “ Xurukk ,” they all answered. One of them had picked her up, so she could see over the ledge ahead, where the valley was filled with grazing deer. “ Sunuguk !” - Ulfim .