Lyle was hostage to the forest. His hiking partner, Sam, suddenly vanished, leaving Lyle utterly alone and vulnerable to the darkness of the trees that towered over him, blocking out the warm sun. He remembered feeling Sam’s presence beside him one moment, and the next, he felt cool air tickling his skin, as though his clothing had been removed, leaving him naked and exposed. Goosebumps spread across his body. Lyle wasn’t a skilled hiker and always got nervous in large open spaces, but Sam had somehow managed to persuade him to join on a day hike at Crawford Lake despite this. Lyle whirled around in search of his friend, expecting him to be hiding somewhere as a trick. He called out Sam’s name and received only the response of his own echo blurred together with the squawk of bird song. “Sam!” he called. “This isn’t funny. You knew goddamned well that I didn’t even want to come on this stupid trip and now you’ve ditched me. Dude, what the f--? Where are you?” Lyle was beginning to accept that his friend wasn’t messing around. Sam had actually disappeared. Panic rose into Lyle’s throat, blocking his breath from escaping. All around him was the emptiness of the forest. “What have you done with Sam,” he screamed to the trees. “You can’t just take him away like that!” A rough wind started blowing, and Lyle knew this was the forest's way of taunting him. What had he done to deserve being left alone like this? He let his body collapse heavily onto the moss-covered ground and slumped himself against a boulder. He could feel tears welling inside his eyes. Lyle wasn’t one to cry, and he felt confused by the salty tears now streaming down his face. Then he realized he wasn’t actually crying; it was only the harsh wind blowing into his eyes causing them to water. All around him, the wind began picking up more fiercely, growling like a bear. The tree branches were dancing back and forth, waving mockingly at Lyle. They seemed to be enjoying his distress. The birds continued squawking as if nothing had changed, but Lyle felt as if the whole world had turned upside down and thrown him into oblivion. The trail had been quiet the entire day, but even if it had been busy, he doubted anyone would find him, for he was nowhere near the trail. Lyle worried that we would die here stranded, his body rotting away, making food for flesh-eating beetles. How horrific and mutilated he would look when someone finally found his body. Dead leaves rustled across the dirt like tumbleweeds. A few sticks followed, leaving deep trenches between the pebbles. Lyle watched them go by and thought they looked like a hand with long nails scratching the ground. He shook his head, trying to erase the thought, but when he looked again, there was the hand continuing to leave its mark, which was now traced in blood. Lyle scrambled away, breathing heavily, ignoring the scratches he was getting from moving in such a crazed manner. When he decided he was far enough away, he leant against a tree and started banging the palm of his left hand against his forehead, hoping he could dispel the illusions with the thumping pain. Again, he let his body slump to the ground. Except he never hit the ground, instead he fell straight through it and could see the forest through a hole that was growing smaller. His muscles tensed, and his eyes squeezed shut. When the feeling of falling went away, he opened them and found himself in the same place he’d been before he fell, surrounded by the forest’s gloom. Lyle curled up into the fetal position, and his body rocked involuntarily. All he could hear was the sound of the rushing wind, which grew louder with every second that passed. The wind was blowing from all directions, creating a vortex that trapped Lyle in the centre - in the eye. The dense wind slowly transformed, and Lyle could now hear his name being called. Then the wind said, “Lyle, I’m so sorry I let this happen to you. I should have kept a better watch. I shouldn’t have let us venture off. I should have known you wouldn't be able to handle it.” Lyle recognized the voice. It wasn’t the wind speaking. It was Sam. Lyle glanced up from his crumpled position, expecting to see his friend standing above him, and there he was. Lyle felt relief wash over him and reached for his hand. Sam knelt down, and Lyle was met with a blank face. The face, most definitely belonging to Sam’s body, had no eyes, but he could still feel the intense glare. “Lyle,” the faceless Sam whispered, “please wake up.” Lyle didn’t understand; he was already awake. He pinched his arm and felt a sharp pain shoot through his skin. He was definitely not asleep. Once more, he shut his eyes tight, and when he opened them, the faceless Sam was gone and was replaced by blurred vision. The forest now looked like it was underwater. His head felt foggy. He peeled himself up off the ground, picked a direction to walk and started warily towards it. Lyle walked on until the soles of his shoes had worn thin, and his feet bled. He walked on until his knees could barely hold up his scanty frame. Suddenly, a white light emerged ahead of him, blinding his eyes that had been so accustomed to the murky forest. He clamped his eyes shut and, without thinking, sprinted towards the light. Soon, the brightest part was directly in front of him. He made his way for it only to find himself hitting what felt like a brick wall. His eyes flew wide open. ... Lyle felt as though he’d just awoken from a night terror. His heart rate quickened as he heard a loud beeping to his right. He tried to speak but found no words, all he could manage was a low gurgling noise. He was no longer in the animated forest but in a bland hospital room. A woman in blue hurried in and began asking him questions he couldn’t answer. Lyle gawked at her. She stopped questioning him and instead started smoothing his hair out of his face gently. He knew she was speaking reassuring words, as for what she was saying, he hadn’t the faintest clue. The woman in blue gestured that she’d be back soon and left. Lyle was able to absorb in his surroundings better. He lay on a comfortable bed with fresh-smelling sheets. In one corner was a bucket filled with soapy water, a rag hung over the edge. Attached to his right arm was a plastic tube, which Lyle assumed was for feeding him. A heart rate monitor stood on the far side of the room, beeping rhythmically. Lyle’s bed sat next to a bright window, and on the ledge were drooping flowers. He reached for one of the get well soon cards. In his mother’s handwriting, written inside, was a short note that said, come back to us, Lyle, we miss you . He placed it carefully back onto the window’s ledge. Lyle began feeling uncomfortable laying down as if he’d been stuck in that position for eternity. His muscles screamed at him as he lifted himself off the bed, but after stretching, they quieted down. Lyle made his way over to the door, wanting to search for someone who could put his confusion at ease. Hanging beside the door was a clipboard, and attached was a hospital document with Lyle’s name as the headline. He studied the paper, unsure of what most of the words meant. At the top, a few handwritten notes had been made about unusual brain activity. From what Lyle was able to gather, he’d suffered severe head trauma and had been in a coma for 13 months.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **The train never came.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week There were a lot of great submissions on the thread this week. While each story brought something unique, there were two stories that I believe stood out among the rest. I hope to see continued participation and feedback this week. - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A fun story about taking a mental vacation from the office. - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - A thought-provoking love story of the moon and the earth.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail.


“Marla Mead?” The receptionist’s voice snapped Marla out of her reverie. Hastily Marla stammered out a, “Yes, yes, that’s me,” and instantly flushed - *christ, who else would it be, I’m the only one here* \- “Follow me, please,” the receptionist said, before disappearing through the doorway at the far wall, the one with the sign above it whose inviting yellow lettering read, “*HINDSIGHT 20/20: Live Your Perfect Vision!*” Marla jumped to her feet, quickly gathering up her heavy winter coat and tote bag into a bundled mess in her arms, then hurried through the closing door. She jumped when it slammed shut behind her, the echo belying the stooped and narrow hallway before her. As she caught up with the receptionist, her mind searched anxiously for possible small talk to fill the air with something besides the rustling of scrubs fabric, or her own heels, whose rubber soles had long worn down to their metal bones. But her heart was pounding too powerfully with the prospect of possibility to think of even a single thing to say, too preoccupied with wondering what new life would unfold for her when she left here. She had no idea the specifics of how they did it, or how long it would take, but what did that matter, when- They had reached another door. The receptionist was turning the knob and pushing it open. An examination room lay beyond the threshold, humbly decorated with a plain desk along one wall, a black leather chair along another, and a beige exam table acting as the slanted centerpiece. “Sit there, please,” the receptionist said. She was nodding towards the exam table. Marla clumsily placed her coat and bag in a precarious pile on the black chair, then walked over and climbed up on to the exam table. She winced at the loud crinkling of the paper lining the seat beneath her, but the receptionist barely seemed to notice, merely placing Marla’s chart in the slot on the door, then closing it with a click and leaving Marla in a sudden swoop of silence. Marla’s eyes scanned the walls that were empty of paintings or windows; the only thing to hang in this room was ringing silence. She absently locked her hands, lined with swollen joints and veins, on her thin lap. Her feet dangled from the edge, revealing a run in her stockings peeking out near her Achilles tendon, above the faded scuffs of once-supple leather shoes. As if someone might notice, she crossed her ankles, hiding the run from sight. The door opened. Marla lifted her head to see the kind eyes and beaming smile of a doctor who seemed to radiate like a sun as he entered the room. Instantly, she felt awash with warmth from his rays; that no matter what happened from this moment on, she would be safe. “Marla,” he said, his voice a rich deep baritone that made her feel further dipped in butterscotch, “You must be Marla.” “Y-yes,” Marla managed, nearly speechless in her awe; he was taking her hands into his, as if they were long-lost friends finally reunited. “I’m Doctor Morton,” he said, and turned slightly towards a young, slender blonde nurse whose smiling dimples were contagious in their brightness. “And this is Anka. She’s training today, if that’s all right.” Marla shrugged in a dazed and happy helplessness, “Sure, of course.” “Great,” said Dr. Morton, pulling over the stool that was tucked beneath the desk to sit. He opened the chart he had grabbed from the slot on the outside of the door and looked at it for a moment, then folded it over and clicked a pen. “So, my dear Marla,” he said, “Tell me, what brings you here today?” Marla hesitated, “Well, I heard about this place - I don’t even remember how, actually - about how this place can...help people, reverse what’s gone wrong in their life.” Dr. Morton’s eyes were steadfastly on her, his head at a wonderfully attentive tilt, “Yes, in a matter of speaking. While I do not know the specifics of what you were told, what we can do here, Marla, is send people back to a time in their life. A pivotal moment, a crossroads, and give them, for lack of a better word, a do-over. Now, the science is not a perfect one, and of course, no future is predetermined once we send you back. And once you go back, you are back for good. There is no finding me again, there is no third chance at the life you want. Are you willing to accept that?” Marla swallowed hard, and nodded, “Y-yes, yes, I am.” Dr. Morton, looking quite serious now, nodded again, this time at Anka, who pulled out a clipboard from a drawer at the desk. “This,” Dr. Morton, “Is a small disclaimer, fancy-language of what I just told you. Once you sign that, we can begin.” Marla smiled weakly as Anka handed her the clipboard and pen with an encouraging but solemn bow of the head. Marla haphazardly signed her name at the bottom, then handed it back. “Excellent,” said Dr. Morton, pulling his chair in closer. “Now, what I want you to tell me, if you can, your crossroads moment.” “I was 21,” said Marla, “And...I had given up.” “I, um, I was in a very intense arts program, in college,” Marla continued, “Opera performance. And...I wasn't doing well. I had had cancer during my freshman year. The technique they taught was totally incompatible with my voice. I had a horrible, toxic romantic relationship that lasted nearly my entire time at school. I was falling fast into an eating disorder from years of body dysmorphia. I had acid reflux that was so bad I had to have a stomach surgery to fix it, another month-long healing process during my junior year. But all of that, I could have risen above. Even constantly being told and shown that I had no right to even attempt my hand at singing, at trying to do what I felt I would die if I didn’t...even that, I could live with.” Marla paused. She closed her eyes and choked out, “The worst part was...they were right.” “It was as if they knew from the beginning, and I was hiding it under a thin veneer of denial the whole time: that my vocal cords were weak, prone to injury. I couldn’t sing for more than 20, 30 minutes a day, without becoming tired. After graduating, it was more of the same, no matter how careful I was. Oh, when I stopped singing, I told people it was...a lack of love for performing that made me give it up. That I was happier doing other things. But in truth, the truth I could never admit? I was naturally predisposed to physically fail at the thing I had dreamed of doing since I was a child.” Dr. Morton said softly, “You know, as much as I wish it for you - doing this won’t change that.” Marla, vision blurry from tears, replied, “No, I know. But to be able to live a life where I don’t feel bad about shortcomings I was dealt, where I'm not haunted by this shameful secret I could never admit to the world, not without my heart breaking all over again...I want that. A life...without that.” Dr. Morton stood up and came to her side, “Well, we'll make sure you get it.” He smoothed down her hair kindly, then said, “I’m going to lower this table down now, all right? And Anka here is going to give you something to make you sleep. A vial of fluid, that allows us more ease in transitioning you to the place you want to be.” Marla watched as Anka approached her, hand holding a thin glass tube of clear, unassuming liquid. “Whenever you’re ready, Marla,” the doctor said. Marla stared at them both, then downed it in a single shot. It burned slightly, but finished on a sweet note. “Good luck, Marla,” Dr. Morton said, his voice growing faint. His smiling face was the last thing she saw before her world sank into blackness. \* “She’s there now, Doctor?” Anka said quietly. They were watching through the glass, standing in a room darkened by the passing of time. Dr. Morton nodded, “Yes. Permanently. We make it so the simulation plays out until the patient expires. Which, given that we are mining their bodies for...*resources*, doesn't take long.” Past the pane lay Marla Mead, in a room shared by dozens of others. All of them were asleep, strapped to hospital beds and riddled with tubes, faces white and smiles frozen, closed eyes seeing all they could ever wish to see - forever.


The worn, creased paper is soft against the rough pads of my fingers. Growing up, I’ve watched my dad fold and unfold this mysterious form of directions more times than I can count. Some are born with a sense of direction, like my father. I was not. Flipping it one way and then another does little to help with which end goes up. The lines cross, circle and swirl, blend and divide, and a dull ache forms in my head from staring too long. Is that a road or a river? A buzz in my pocket signals an incoming text, reminding me how easy it would be to let Siri guide the way. This is dumb. The man who donated to my existence thinks every eighteen-year-old boy should learn the art of ‘finding your own path’. We met an hour ago at the edge of town for breakfast and to discuss the instructions. Basically, I’m to find the circled destination without the use of my phone, avoid the interstate, and only ask a stranger if I’m desperate. So far, so good. No phone and no desperation. My beater truck now idles by the side of the road as I contemplate the next turn. A gust of warm air blows in through the open window and pulls my gaze to the burbling creek outside. Last night’s heavy rain moves swiftly downstream without hesitation, sure to arrive at its intended end. I’m glad someone knows where they’re going. The broken rays of sunlight glimmer over the surface of the water and a squirrel munches nearby on his mid-morning snack. I hate to admit the scenery is quite invigorating, and there’s no way I would have taken the time to notice if using google for navigation. Bringing my focus back to the task at hand, my finger follows the winding blue line that expires in a lake. River then. Which means I must be on the black line beside it. Good to know. Next turn is left, but in exact miles I couldn’t say. I missed that left turn. Oddly enough, I don’t care. Another opportunity will present itself shortly and I’ve enjoyed following alongside the shaded, curvy riverbank. My normal drive consists of air blasting and radio blaring, but today I’m content to let the sights and sounds of nature permeate my soul. It reminds me of family road trips--dad behind the wheel, mom making a game out of everything, and my brother and I fighting in the back seat. One particular canoe trip stands out of us drifting down river, finding crawdads, fishing, swimming, lunch on a sandbar, and hiking through the woods. I can still hear my mother’s yelp when a water snake paid us a visit. My younger brother snatched it up and we carried the thing around for hours, much to mom’s dismay. When your parents believe memories are more important than gifts, you have a lot of fun stories to draw from. Half an hour later and I’ve left the river valley and wound upward to the top of a mountain. Deciding to stop at a scenic lookout, my lunch is spread out next to me on a bench, I stare out across the expanse of treetops and fields. A turkey sandwich never tasted so good, and I wonder if I’ll be able to replicate said sandwich next month when I’m off at school. Mom has made sure to teach me the basics and I can find my way around the kitchen, but is anything ever as good as when your mom makes it? Doubtful. Anyway, thanks to her I won’t starve. Or have dirty clothes. With lunch out of the way, I make quick study of the route ahead, trying to memorize road names and numbers. I’m thinking the state line is fairly close, and then another hour should do the trick. I’ll drive right under the bypass, but won’t cheat so as not to disappoint the man who raised me. Integrity has been ingrained since childhood and modeled without fail. I realize I’m fortunate in the parent department, even if they’re a tad overprotective for a teenagers liking. After one last gander over the terrain and a restorative intake of summer air, I shove everything in the truck and take off for the final leg of the journey. According to adults, most of life doesn’t go as planned, and the last two hours have been proof of that. A wrong turn, turnaround, construction, and an elderly-driver later, and I’m finally entering the town circled in red. I pull over in the nearest gas station and slide the phone from my pocket. Since entering the city limits, I now have permission to enter the exact coordinates of our meeting place and give my brain a much needed break. I love you Siri. The pin pops up within a few miles of my position, causing a satisfied smile to break out on my face. I’ll be darn. I did it. The predetermined address is not what I thought it would be. I expected a restaurant or something along those lines. My father is seated on his hood, drinking from a Styrofoam cup, and gives me a thumbs up as I park beside him. The engine sputters in indignation when I turn the key and the door rattles its protest to being opened and closed. She’s old, but served me well today. I shuffle over to dad’s Camry as he slides down to greet me. His cheekbones squish his eyes together from a goofy grin. “You made it. How was the trip?” “Fine.” The eyebrows hike in high arches. “Just fine?” I shrug and kick at the pavement. He deserves more than that but I’m not good with expressing myself. “Yeah, it was kinda cool. There was some sick scenery and I only got turned around a couple of times. How long have you been here?” “An hour. I took the interstate.” Of course he did. “Sorry you had to wait so long.” He pats my shoulder, a proud-papa gleam in his eye. “No worries. The black sludge they call coffee kept me company.” I glance around the lot and wonder again why this spot. “What are we doing here?” “You’ll be driving back and forth to college so your mom and I thought it was time for a more dependable vehicle.” Now it’s my eyebrows that climb my forehead. “Are you serious?” His laughter comes out in breaths through the nose. “You betcha. They have some used trucks you might want to start with, in great shape and low mileage. But we can look at whatever you want. Within reason.” “Wow, Dad...I don’t know what to say.” “Thank you is plenty. We’re proud of the young man you’ve become and can’t wait to see what the next chapter holds. I have all the faith you’ll do great things. Now come on, we’ve got some cars to browse.” He spins on his heel and starts to walk toward the row of used vehicles. Making strides to catch up, I grab his elbow. “Hey, Dad?” “Yes?” “Thank you.” He nods in understanding. At least I hope he gets it. The man has spent eighteen years of his life investing in mine with little to no interest or return. Maybe someday, somehow, I can show him how much his sacrifices have truly meant and be the man he’s taught me to be. That in and of itself is a tall order but will no doubt lead to a life well-lived, and I’m willing to give it a try. By Carol Spivey


Jacob I lift the heavy brass knocker and announce my presence three times, rat tat tat , then step back to wait, my mind alternating between the theme for my sermon tomorrow evening and the glass of sherry which sits undrunk on the little table next to my armchair. A man of God stands in the service of his parishioners and it is his duty and pleasure to serve, I remind myself, so I push back against my feelings of irritation about being called out at such a late hour, and focus instead on what on earth could have caused Sir Charles to call me in such an agitated state. I’m about to knock again when the door opens a crack, and I see the bespectacled face of his manservant Davies peer around the edge. His eyes appear wide with consternation, but then his face relaxes and he opens the door wider. “Hallo Father, thank you for coming at such a late hour,” he says as he ushers me into the hallway. He fumbles with my coat, trying to take it from me with one hand, and I notice that he’s trying to hide a poker iron behind his back with the other. “Expecting trouble, Davies?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. He catches my glance, then gives up trying to hide the poker, setting it down on the sideboard so he can take my coat properly. “No sir,” he mumbles, then adds “just acting cautious like. You’ll find the master in his study. I thank the man and set off up the hallway. Knocking once on the study door and receiving a gruff bark for reply, I enter the room. Sir Charles is seated at his desk, and I can see at a glance that something is wrong. He face has a sheen of sweat that could be attributed to the stickiness of the room, but his eyes are wild and his expression is that of a hunted deer. I stride over and take him by the shoulders. “Sir Charles, what’s the matter man?” “Father, thank goodness you’ve come!” he cries. My touch seems to compose him slightly, and he motions to an armchair across from his desk. As I sit down, he speaks again. “Forgive me father, but I think my life is in peril.” His voice becomes steadier as he narrates his story. “It started last month. I received a threatening letter - ” here he breaks off and shows me the note, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise as I see it. It’s one of those classic types where every word is cut out of a newspaper and stuck together. I honestly thought they only turned up in crime stories like Father Brown Investigates. I read the note. “ Hand over the necklace or you’ll regret the consequences.” Hardly original and not very explicit, but I know which necklace it refers to, and I look up sharply. “Yes,” he sighs, “the necklace of my dear Lily.” And my sister . My guts twist when I hear her name, and my pulse starts race to as I think back to the tragic accident, the fall down the stairs... “Of course it’s worth an absolute fortune, but I wouldn’t dream of parting with it” he continues, oblivious to my reaction. “This was postmarked in London, and there were others too, ever more threatening, until this one arrived this morning.” He shows me a note with the single word Tonight . “This was found on the doormat, hand delivered!” He looks up now, visibly shaken. “Father, I called you seeking advice - what should I do?” I consider the situation carefully, then get up and go to the window. I release the latch and throw open the window, letting in the cool night air, and straight away the cloying humidity leaves the room. I start slightly as I catch the silhouette of a man skulking in the shadows along the path outside the garden perimeter. Then it is gone, and I am left wondering if I imagined it. “My dear Charles,” I say in my confessional voice. “What could possibly happen to you in your own home? It’s like a fortress here, and I am sure Davis will let no-one in. It’s late, and I suggest you go straight to bed. Perhaps the good doctor has given you some sleeping tablets...?” He nods, so I continue. “Come, up and off to bed with you. Take those tablets to get a good nights sleep, and in the morning you’ll see that the worry was all for nothing.” He dithers, then acquiesces, and I lead him out of the room. We encounter Davis in the hallway, and Sir Charles bids us both goodnight before trudging up the staircase. “One moment” I tell Davis, and return to the study to close and bolt the window. I collect my coat, and giving Davis stern instructions to let no-one else in this evening, I bid my farewell and make my way home to that well deserved glass of sherry. *** Stephenson I hurry along the dark track, taking care though not to stumble in the ruts and pot-holes which litter the road. I’m exhausted, having walked the last seven miles from the neighbouring village to set a particularly nasty bone-break from a riding accident. My doctors bag swings heavily at my side. I curse loudly as my foot finds a deep rut hidden in the shadows, and it takes all my training to avoid twisting my ankle. My stomach rumbles as I think of the steak and kidney pie my landlady is making tonight, and hope that there’s still some left for me when I get home. A brief flash of light catches my eye as I pass the manor house, and looking up I glimpse the silhouette of a man against an open window, before the view is swallowed up again by the darkness and the trees. I creep back into the guest house late, letting myself in quietly so I don’t disturb the other occupants. I needn’t have worried though, as a deathly quiet hangs over the house. I breathe silent thanks to Mrs Harris as I see the piece of pie waiting for me on the kitchen table. She knows that my work can be often gruelling, and she treats me like the son she always wanted. I’ll wash up in the morning - if I run hot water now there’s a danger I’ll wake people up. I take off my boots by the front door, and tread cat-like up the staircase, keeping to the sides to avoid the squeaky stair. Despite my heavy build I can move stealthily, an ability which earnt me the nickname Panther in my army days. I grin savagely, thinking of those long-gone times, before I crash fully dressed into the small bed and fall fast asleep. The rat tat tat of machine gun fire jerks me awake, before my brain clicks into place and I realize it’s Mrs Harris knocking sharply on the bedroom door. “Doctor Stephenson, you’re needed at the manor house, you must come quickly!” she shouts through the door. My mind registers that it’s early, the first pale light is filtering through the window. I ruffle my short-cropped hair and grab my kit bag, then take the stairs two at a time before wrenching open the front door with the briefest of hellos to Mrs Harris. The journey to the manor house seems to take far less time than it did last night, and I can see there’s a crowd already gathered there. A young policeman, Nick I think his name is, waves me over. Pushing through the crowd, I stop short when I see the body sprawled on the stone pathway. Sir Charles is dressed in his night gown, but his limbs are twisted grotesquely from his obvious fall from the third story window. His head is caved in from the impact with the pavement, and a stream of blood has pooled into the nearby grass. His wrist is cold to the touch as I search routinely for any sign of a pulse. “You don’t need a doctor here,” I say to the policeman as I stand up, “you need a priest.” *** Rigsby “Who found the body?” I ask the young policeman, as I observe the lifeless figure with detached interest. It’s too damn early, and I would kill for a second cup of coffee. “The housemaid sir,” he replies, checking his notes. I nod with approval at his orderly fashion. “Found him at six this morning when she came to start work. She thought it odd, apparently, that the Major’s window was open, before she noticed the body.” “Very good, I’ll need to speak to her then,” I reply, “and I’ll need to speak to all members of the household, including any guests which were there yesterday.” I peer up at the open window. It’s a long drop, and my first thought is suicide, but then I push that to one side. Never assume , I tell myself. I need to collect more facts, as I can’t for the life of me see why a chap should hurl himself out of his bedroom window. The doctor is a bear of a fellow, almost certainly ex-army, and I go over to him now. “Time of death?” I shoot at him, and he pauses to consider before answering. “Rigor mortis has set in, and is almost complete, which puts the time of death to between six and eight hours ago.” He was found at six, which would make the time of death between ten and midnight, but instinctively I think it’s more towards midnight. I look around the grounds. The manor is surrounded by a large garden with plenty of old trees which would obscure the view partially from the street. Even so, people don’t throw themselves out of bedroom windows at ten in the evening without anyone noticing. I interrogate Davis the manservant next, a shrunken little man sitting in a crumpled heap on a chair in the corridor. “It was just myself and the master last night sir,” he says in answer to my question. “The housemaid goes home at eight, and there’s no other staff in the house. Oh, but the vicar did come round late last night, scared the life out of me he did, knocking on the door so late in the evening.” Interesting - a vicar speaks to a man a few short hours before his death. “I’ll have to speak to this vicar then,” I say aloud. “Where can I find him?” “Why, that’s him there sir, just arriving now.” I turn round to see a thin, smartly dressed man arriving on a bicycle. He parks his bike and says a few words to the doctor, before hurrying over to the house. He expresses his shock and condolence to Davis, before appearing to register my presence for the first time. “Inspector Rigsby,” I say, tipping my hat. “I understand you saw the deceased yesterday evening.” “Yes sir, and my, he had a strange tale to tell. He was being threatened, you know, had been receiving notes. The last one simply said Tonight , and fair shook him up. I didn’t take it seriously, really, but now I wish I had, poor fellow. He was my brother-in-law, after all. Seems they were after the necklace.” “Necklace?” I say. This case is getting stranger by the minute. I make a note to check this up later, and ask Davis whether anything else strange has happened recently. Something doesn’t add up here; I need to dig deeper. “Well sir,” he says, wringing his hands, “there was the visit from the son, yesterday. I don’t like to pry sir, and they were in the study so I didn’t hear much, but they were shouting so loud that I did here a few words here and there.” He pauses, so I nod encouragement for him to continue. “I got the impression that the son was angry about his inheritance, he was shouting about the will. But I didn’t hear anymore sir, and then the son stormed off in such a rage, sir, it made me quite scared.” I groan to myself - of course I’ll have to check the will. I make a note to investigate both the son and the will. I’m about to question the old man further when the vicar interjects. “So that’s why you were so nervous about opening the door last night!” he exclaims. “I thought that was very odd. Oh my! When I opened the window last night, I’m sure I saw someone skulking in the shadows! Could that have been him? I’m jolly glad I told you not to let anyone else in last night.” He stopped short, seeming to deflate, and cast his eyes to the ground. “Not that that advice helped poor Sir Charles.” If people are talking, I always find it’s best to let them carry on. Out of the corner of my eye though I notice that the doctor is nearby, close enough to be eavesdropping on our conversation. Davies carries on. “Aye, you did sir, and I made sure the door was locked, as I always do. Oh!” his eyes widen, “when the girl bashed on the door this morning, I opened it up straight away without unlocking it. What with all that’s been going on, I didn’t notice that until just now.” So there was someone else in the house last night! This changes things completely. “Who else has a key to the house?” I ask Davis. “Only myself and Sir Charles, sir. Of course, the son might also have a key, but no-one else, sir.” The son again. I signal the young policeman to come over, and ask to look into the whereabouts of the son. He must be staying somewhere nearby. I turn again to Davis. “I think you’d better check to make sure that necklace is still in its place, Davis. In the meantime, I’m going to have a look upstairs.” On Davis’ instructions I head up to the third floor, and turn right into the corridor. The door to Sir Charles’ bedroom is closed, so I turn the knob carefully, making sure not to disturb any fingerprints. The window is wide open, the curtains drawn back on either side. The bed has been slept in, but there’s no obvious sign of any struggle, and all the furniture seems to be in it’s place. Could Sir Charles really have taken his own life by throwing himself out of the window? If so, why? I stay in the room for a while contemplating the scene, but nothing comes to mind. The forensics guys will be swarming over the room looking for fingerprints, but I suspect they won’t find much. When I get downstairs Davis looks agitated, and it’s with no great surprise that I hear that the necklace has disappeared. The young policeman returns shortly to inform me that the son checked out of his hotel this morning, and no-one knows his whereabouts. So the son did a runner with the necklace. I catch myself again. Never assume . How does this fit in with the strange death of Sir Charles, the unlocked door, the figure in the shadows and the mysterious notes? An idea is starting to form in my mind, but it seems quite fantastical. It couldn’t possibly be the truth, could it? *** Jacob I take a sip from the small glass of sherry I’m twirling between two fingers in my right hand and lean back in my favourite armchair, savouring the wave of contentment that washes over me. I raise my glass to the good doctor sitting across from me. “Well cousin, did you get it?” In reply he pulls out the pearl necklace from his inside pocket, letting it run through his fingers, and my smile grows wider. “I can’t believe the luck we had with his son - fancy him turning up like that, like it was predestined. That should throw the inspector right off the scent! Davis didn’t half give me a shock though, when he opened the door brandishing that poker.” I chuckle thinking about it. “But now our dear Lily is revenged, and the score is settled.” “He should have hung in the first place!” Stephenson growls, his jaw clenching. The dear boy was always so very loyal. “Yes, well, we both know what really happened, but sadly there was no evidence. But now, tell me how it went,” I say, changing the subject. “Did you have to hide long after I let you in through the window?” He shakes his head. “I hid for an hour or so, but the old guy didn’t even bother to check the room. It was easy enough to sneak up to his room, you know how well I can do that.” I detect the professional pride in his voice. “The old guy was out cold - he must have taken two tablets and that was pretty strong stuff. I don’t think he even woke up. He fairly flew out of that window. And don’t worry, I made sure I wore gloves” he says, catching my look. I snigger when I think of the nights I spent cutting out those notes. In the end they probably weren’t so believable, but they might just tip the balance in favour of suicide. “It’s a shame you had to unlock the front door to get out - we should have planned that a bit better,” I say with slight regret. “Still, the inspector’s chasing after the son now, so all’s well that ends well.” I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. I still have to prepare my sermon tonight, and Hebrews 8:12 should fit the bill nicely. For I will forgive their wickedness, and will remember their sins no more.


Wesley and Jackson’s friendship was born from the depths of competition. While Wesley was far more competitive, Jackson was a natural born winner. Jackson’s ability came with confidence along with a sizeable helping of ego. Wesley was a hard worker but a devout overthinker. They were simply made for one another. Alongside their studies in college, they played board games, video games, pick up games, and made money on the side through under the table poker games in the dorms. Furthermore, their competitive tendencies were backed by talent. In their last year at Cal, Jackson and Wesley decided to delve into something far more serious than any game - a prank war. Of course there was no good ending to what was being started. It was *war* after all. The only real way either could have won was by ruining the other's life. \~ ‘Honey.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘You remember Wesley?’ ‘God, talk about a name I haven’t heard in years.’ ‘Well.’ Jackson took a sip of his coffee. ‘I just got an email from him this morning.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. And I have yet to open it.’ ‘Hopefully it has some answers to how he’s been.’ Jackson’s eyes locked onto a notification reading *email from \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_*. It stuck out like a fly Jackson had graduated ten years ago, and being a Berkeley Law graduate he lived comfortably. He looked beyond his laptop screen at his own reflection in the glass wall of his home. Beyond his reflection he saw it all. The water, the bridges, the city, a regatta speckling the bay. He clicked the notification. Dear Jackson, Bet you haven’t thought about me in a long time huh? I know I kinda *fell off the map* but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about old friends, especially you. I know you’re also probably asking yourself *why is Wesley contacting me?* All will be explained. I didn’t have a lot of friends in college. You knew that. I’ve been working on something for the past few years and I couldn’t stop thinking of you during its final days of construction. I want you to try my escape room. I know you’ve heard of them. Hell, is there really a game out there that we haven’t played? I’ve been waiting to open it publicly for the past few months but something still needs to happen. *You* need to have the first go at it. So yes - this is me inviting you to New Mexico to play a game. Oh yeah, I live in New Mexico now. Let me know if you can make it down here one of these weekends. \- Wesley. \~ Their “war” kicked off innocently, garnering attention from classmates and friends. Pranks consisted of genius plots with satisfying payouts. Their early pranks acted as training. The year went on and the pranks got worse, but they never caused any serious emotional or physical harm. Whatever the case was, it didn’t matter, because Jackson always won. \~ ‘Well you’re not going right?’ ‘Well, I’m thinking about it.’ ‘Jackson.’ ‘What?’ ‘Are you fucking serious?’ ‘About going?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I mean, he is - well was my best friend. I dunno, I feel like I owe it to him. Never really got the chance to apologize.’ ‘It’s weird though - him coming out of nowhere like this.’ ‘Yeah, and it makes it *that* more intriguing.’ Jackson shrugged. ‘You’re a real piece of fucking work.’ Jackson’s wife left the kitchen again. His presence was occasionally unbearable, especially for his wife. He shortly followed up with an email saying that he'd love to make it but couldn’t find any cheap flights to Albuquerque that month, and that he didn’t want to *hold up the show* by keeping Wesley waiting. Thirty minutes later Jackson received an email from Wesley about potential dates he would be able to fly him out. \~ Never had any of their competitive endeavors lasted more than a few weeks, let alone months, until Jackson’s subconscious barriers crumbled due to the reckless and volatile inclination to win. Jackson’s inspiration spawned from his *Intro to Politics and Current Media* course in which he had just read an article on deepfake; a technique in which artificial intelligence superimposes images onto a video to present something that did not occur. Jackson spent the next two nights using an online service which superimposed images of Wesley’s girlfriend onto one of the millions of generic sex tapes online. His girlfriend’s Facebook provided a crammed vault of photos and video to digitally replicate her facial structure, features, imperfections and capture the once innocent tone and sound of her voice. After the service finished rendering the video, Jackson asked one of his fraternity friends to personally invite Wesley’s girlfriend to an upcoming formal. \~ The plane touched the ground and Jackson didn’t look normal, because what he was doing was far from normal. He walked through the terminals and consciously made an effort to not look visibly disgusted by the faux adobe walls and midwestern theme of every single thing surrounding him. His plan followed - staying the night at Wesley’s, completing the escape room the next day, and flying back home later in the afternoon. It was short, but he knew he’d still have to endure speaking with Wesley before he played the room and beat it. No one else could complete the room before him. He saw Wesley standing outside the arrivals gate and moments later was engulfed in a bear hug. Jackson had to process the moment, but figured returning the hug was the only way out. ‘I’m so glad you could make it, how was the flight?’ ‘Not bad, good ol’ melatonin knocked me out.’ ‘Good to hear. Hey, let’s get going and catch up in the car. Every time I see this place I wanna throw up.’ Jackson and Wesley smiled at each other. The drive to Santa Fe was long. Jackson had landed a few hours before sunset, allowing the sun played its part in maximizing the beauty of Wesley’s home. Orange rays shot through the glass walls which made up the majority of the house and the adobe walls surrounding the compound bounced a warm glowing light. Cacti and other desert plants surrounded the driveway and perimeter of the home, all of which was complemented by modern sculptures and a section of Roman statues leading to the front door. They spent the night drinking and touring the home. Wesley had taken after his parents and delved into the stock market eventually landing himself in the profession of an art collector. His major in computer science was left behind. Wesley gave a guided tour of his home and of the sculpture garden in the backyard. It was as if nothing had changed. They talked about a multitude of things while dancing around the subject of the escape room and what happened years ago. However, Wesley and Jackson couldn’t dance forever. A stint of silence couldn’t have been a louder beginning to their inevitable conversation. ‘Jackson, I know you’ve probably been trying to avoid this, but I just wanted to say it now. Whatever you think was your fault - wasn’t.’ Jackson focused his attention on a sculpture of a naked woman outside. He couldn’t avoid the talk but he could avoid eye contact. ‘I was in a very bad state at the time - frankly, I just wanted to move on, so I used your - *prank*, as an excuse. I figured if I just dropped out without having some motive, then people wouldn’t be able to leave me alone, ya know? They’d ask me questions, tell me to come back, that sort of thing.’ Jackson couldn’t avoid this however. He turned and looked at Wesley. ‘I’ve been wanting to say this for a long time, Jackson. If anyone ever thought less of you for what you did I’m sorry. It didn’t affect me at all.’ Jackson stared through Wesley, unable to process his thoughts, let alone formulate a sentence. Wesley got up and patted Jackson on the shoulder and left him in the living room. Jackson had a hard time sleeping that night. It didn’t help that he was drunk. \~ The day after the formal, Jackson uploaded the video and waited till the evening to text Wesley. Hey Wesley I think Anna cheated on you last night... Jesse you know ? Our friend in KA ? Well he texted me a link to a video this morning. I really hate to be the one telling you this, but no one else had the balls to say something. I’ll send the link but I think it would be wise to talk to Anna about what happened if you end up deciding to watch it. Wesley watched the video first thing and jumped to any and every conclusion about what he saw. He went berserk, broke up with his girlfriend, moved out, dropped out of college, and fell off the map - because not once in his life had Wesley been betrayed. Jackson had dug a hole into the core of his best friend’s insecurities. \~ ‘Morning buddy.’ Wesley was making coffee and breakfast while the beauty of his glass home was resurrected by the warm light that flooded in. Jackson woke up, hungover. ‘I should’ve woken you up earlier because we have to head out pretty soon.’ ‘Oh. No problem. Where is the room anyways?’ ‘It’s out on this rez a few hours away, it’ll only take about forty five minutes to finish so we’ll get back well before your flight heads out.’ ‘A rez?’ ‘Yeah, one of those Native American reservations, they let me and helped me build it out there for a lot cheaper. No building permits, contracts, taxes, *nothing*.’ ‘Well that’s convenient.’ \~ Wesley slept on the ride to the escape room. When he woke up he had no idea where they were or how long they had been driving for. Jackson didn’t ponder that fact for too long as he became fixated on the two story rectangular, concrete building in front of their car. It was windowless with a vault door leading into the first floor and a staircase leading up to the second. There was no road leading to the building or even a structure on the horizon. The building was a monolith of the desert. Wesley admired the building for a few moments with a smug look. Jackson looked at him and the building in confusion. Escape rooms usually had a theme, and *Battleship’s* theme seemed to be an above ground fallout shelter. ‘*Battleship* - huh?’ ‘That’s the name*.* Remember when Battleship became our escape from Settlers of -’ ‘I do, yeah.’ ‘Well I thought I’d give a little homage to those days.’ Wesley got out of the car and Jackson followed. They walked to the front door and were cascaded by the shade falling from the building. Jackson couldn’t see anything through the porthole in the door. ‘The actual escape room is on the first floor. I’ll be monitoring from the second. I doubt you’ll need any help though.’ Wesley handed him a blindfold and a plastic band. ‘Put these on and I’ll lead you in. After you hear a short alarm you can take your blindfold off and get started. You excited?’ ‘Oh yeah. Just a little anxious.’ ‘You have nothing to be anxious about. You’ll probably get it in no time with your luck.’ Jackson was going along with anything at this point, which was exactly how he ended up in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico with a friend whose life he thought he ruined. Jackson donned the blindfold. Wesley guided him into the pitch black room, let go, and walked back to the front door. ‘Jackson.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I never forgot about what you did to me.’ Wesley closed the door behind him and the sounds of hydraulics pierced through the air and his footsteps reverberated when he walked up the stairway to the second floor. Jackson heard the hydraulics again as Wesley closed the second story door. Jackson hadn’t thought about the plastic band until he felt it tighten on his wrist. The alarm then sounded at an earsplitting level. Jackson tore off his blindfold, the alarm stopped, and the room was now completely lit. A checkerboard print of black and white squares, big enough to stand on, covered and lit the entirety of the room. He reached into his pocket for his phone and looked around. The phone was lost and the door was covered - mixed in somewhere with the tiles. Across the room from Jackson was a tablet with a flashing white screen. He walked over and picked it up. A video began to play. ‘Welcome to Battleship. Much like the original game, the rules aren’t too different. You will use this tablet to choose where to strike. If you get a hit, the squares to choose will change. You will start off by selecting positions on the floor. Once you or your opponent is hit by a floor strike you will then select positions on the wall. Once and if you get a wall strike then you will then select positions from the ceiling. You are allowed to change positions after your opponent’s attempts to strike. Do not move after you have chosen a position when it is your opponent's turn to strike. You will have fifteen seconds to move and select a position, and fifteen seconds to select where to strike. The first one strike the other opponent three times wins. Select heads or tails on the screen.’ Jackson had many questions and no way to answer them. Both the coin flip and the room stood as games of complete chance. He chose heads, and heads it was. The screen transitioned to the dimensions and pattern of the floor beneath him. A timer appeared at the top of the screen and began counting down. He selected a square at random and waited for another fifteen. The square on the screen flashed red and it was a miss. The countdown began again on his screen and Jackson moved to a square while taking some time to observe his surroundings. Small indentations covered every square in the room. Fifteen seconds passed and a square in the corner of the room flashed red. The room spoke. ‘Miss.’ The back and forth went on for awhile. The room was flashing with red squares and announcing *miss*. The game showed no indication of ending anytime soon. Jackson attempted to play smarter, striking more on one side of the floor to possibly drive his *opponent* to the other side. He played that strategy for a while and finally made a move. Jackson selected a spot at the opposite corner on the tablet. After the timer finished he instantly heard screams from above him. The square he selected flashed a bright green on the screen and the room announced ‘hit’. Jackson ran under the exact spot where he heard Wesley’s screams. Jackson cried out for him and as he cried out towards the ceiling he could see a reflection of green on the white tile above him. Before he had the time to look down, spikes ejected through the indentations beneath him for a split second and retracted back into the tile. One opened the side of his left leg, slicing through tough muscles and tendons, while another pierced through his heel and between the bones of his right leg. The other spikes inverted and severed a few toes. He was razed to the ground and splashed into a pool of blood and torn flesh. Lying flat on his back he saw the tablet across the room. Despite the trauma, he remembered the rules well and knew he had to make a choice within seconds. He dragged himself across the room and hastily selected a tile. It was a miss. The experience of fatal injuries made time feel shorter and for Jackson, time was genuinely of the essence. The tablet transitioned to a select number of squares. A square across the room on the bottom layer of the wall turned red. Whatever was next would come from the walls. The game would progress faster and the chance of getting hit was much higher. Again he hastily made a selection and then slid to a far corner of the room. His blood acted as a convenient lubricant. He missed. At the end of fifteen seconds Jackson attempted to sit up, and failed. He let out a small scream and fell to the floor. A square at the other end of the room flashed red. ‘Miss.’ Jackson made a selection on the tablet and slid across the room again until the friction of the dry floor stopped him. Another miss. Wesley would either choose a spot to hit in his old or new position. Towards the end of fifteen seconds Wesley had chosen an opposite position. A tile to Jackson’s left turned green and an object flew through his torn calf. It wasn’t nearly as agonizing as the spike through his heel but he still couldn’t help from releasing a whimper that came out more like a suppressed shriek. He was losing more blood and chose to remain where he was. He could only hope Wesley would think he moved like he did last time. Jackson made another random selection and at the end of fifteen seconds he heard a scream that would have been deafening if it weren’t for the ceiling between them. Jackson had gotten a wall strike. The timer was counting down again, Jackson stayed put, and Wesley’s shrieking continued. Ponds of blood were a reminder that moving would be just as deadly as settling in one place. A tile directly next to the one above him flashed red. Wesley’s howls were relentless, despite the fact that they were nearly muted. It was obvious where they were coming from. Time was beginning to move slower. Jackson took the lapse in reality to cry. The timer was ticking and he closed his eyes. Jackson pressed the tile on screen where the weaning screams emitted from. The timer ended and a bang rang through the room followed by a swift thud. Hydraulics sounded and three tiles fell from the wall behind him, splashing into a pool of blood. The door opened and the sun was setting. Jackson had won.


Zee, a young simple farmer keeps his own counsel, newly wed with a young babe. The crops have been good the last few years, but the omens for this season have been dark. Muza the mayor has been looking for blood and money, ever since the new railway is coming through town. First he bought from those that would sell, then he terrorised those that wouldn't. Zee is the last farm left, and Muza can almost taste his prize. Zee took his chances, his pride drowning out the pleas of his wife. Toko and Dario, the meanest henchmen for miles flank Muza when he finally arrives at the farm. He knows Zee won't sell, he even was hoping for it. Zee let's his shotgun ring out, but he is a no good shot, that or he doesn't have the guts to plug them. He didn't know what was coming, and before he knows it he is out of bullets. Toko wastes no time with a beating that leaves Zee unable to walk while Dario brings out his wife and kid, waving the golden deed to the land in his hands. First the farm burns to the ground, and Muza licks his lips before snapping the little ones neck. Toko and Dario laugh at the cries of the young bride, while they have their way with her before Muza blows her brains out all over Zee. Unable to move, a whimpering witness to the evil. They break his hands, ribs and legs blinded by his blood, everything goes dark. He awakens weeks later in a teepee, thanks to an old shaman, last survivor of a long forgotten tribe. Damned from death, Zee is reborn from a coma back into hell. If he could he would end his life himself. His hands heal, and his ribs, and the cold festering of revenge builds like the snows of winter gather, Zees rage grows. More than death, Muza must suffer. The shamans hatchets are deadly and Zee is as quick with them as a viper. But he must travel far and wide for weapons to take on Muzas boys. At the end of the world he finds the gunseller, and for a bargain he gains himself some of the last remaining six shooters. Zee learns to shoot. Anger and a fire of endless zeal to right the wrong. And like death from the grave, his wrath is all consuming. The fight is bloody. Toko is Zees first target, and after hacking off his hands and feet, he leaves him be. He might live, Zee hopes so. Dario is burried alive in ant hill, begging for a swift death, which he doesn't get. Zees unquenchable thirst for revenge grows stronger every moment. Twenty of Muzas guards go down before he gets a scratch, and he hardly feels the bullet in his shoulder while his rage endures. Face to face Zee and Muza square off. A final duel to end the pain. Shots fire and both are quick. Muza inflames Zee further, with taunts of his dead wife. Dropping his six shooter Zee let's a hatchet fly, catching Muza in the chest. He approaches slow and giving the hatchet a twist goes to work.


Authors Note: Hi everyone! I finally got a story out on Reedsy despite the assignments that were crammed and stacked onto my head! This is a sequel to "Grandpa Laurence", my previous story on Reedsy. Enjoy! Grandma Lolla took a shuddery and shaky breath as she placed a sealed envelope into the capsule, inhaling nervously. She held her back, groaned weakly and pushed the spade into the ground. She covered the fresh soil over the shiny capsule and sighed. Beatrix would soon understand the meaning of this. It had been five days. Five days, since Grandma Lolla had passed away. Five days since everyone had mourned in despair. Her last words had been “Larry” before she collapsed onto the ground, and stilled in her last, shuddery breath, closing her eyes for the last time. But what Beatrix regretted the most, was that Grandma Lolla wasn’t able to explain what had happened to Grandpa Laurence. She didn’t make it in time. No one knew the story. Her mother did, but she was given instructions not to tell anyone. Mrs Lemons never talked after her mother’s death. She was still in a state of shock. She usually only responded with an uneventful, lifeless shake of her head, or “no” and “yes”. Beatrix was in her room, glancing sorrowfully at her grandmother’s photograph. If only she had been on time, to hear the story. She and her mother were going to the house that afternoon to collect valuables so the ancient house could be sold. Beatrix looked at the house, a deep pang drilling into her as she realized she wouldn’t be able to see her grandmother. Ever again. Hurriedly, she rummaged through her grandmother’s items and picked up a locket that was hidden deep inside the layered dusty shelves. It contained a shiny key and a picture inside it. Curiously, she opened the locket, glancing amused, at the picture in the locket. A handsome face bored into her eyes. He looked in his mid-thirties and his arm was around - around... “Grandma Lolla! That’s the woman next to him. That must be Grandpa Larry!” She glanced at the photograph leaning on Grandma’s bed. It looked similar. She dropped Grandma Lolla’s valuable things and grasped a couple of letters. She read the first few lines. They were love letters. Grandma Lolla had written one to Grandpa Larry. It seemed as if they were deeply in love. But why was Grandma Lolla reluctant to bring up the subject of him? Suddenly, Beatrix noticed a letter lying on Grandma Lolla’s musty scented pillow. It looked new and she hadn’t seen it before. She read the writing on the front of the letter. It was addressed to her, surprisingly. The adrenaline rushed rapidly in her as her trembling fingers clasped the letters and opened it swiftly. Beatrix sat on the edge of the abandoned bed and studied it curiously and excitedly. My darling Beatrix, My body is getting weaker and fragile. I know I won’t last long, and I know I won’t have enough time to tell you the truth about Grandpa Larry. Listen to my instructions carefully. There is a small rose plant at the back of the garden. Diagonally, I want you to dig the ground, dig at it carefully and you will find a golden capsule. It will have a lock on it. Go to my cupboard. Hidden deep, you will find a locket with a key. The locket encloses a picture of me and your grandfather. Use that key to open the capsule. Inside it, you will find an enclosed, sealed envelope. Take it back with you and read it. You have deserved to know the truth about me and Grandpa Larry. I must ask you to promise me one thing, whether I may be dead or alive, is to never, never tell anyone about it. Love, Grandma Lolla, Her heartbeat raced excitedly and rapidly as Beatrix tucked the letter into her pocket and dashed to the back garden. She moved the spade diagonally towards the rose garden and delved into the wet soil and earth. Abruptly, the spade clinked against a metal object and Beatrix felt elevated and enraptured. Quickly, she fingered her way through the soil and heaved the tiny capsule, engulfed in soil and mud. She removed the locket clasped around her neck and opened the capsule. It clicked, and sure enough, a sealed envelope addressed to Beatrix Lemons was printed neatly in the middle of the envelope. Shaking and trembling, she carried the envelope and dug the capsule safely back into the earth. She hurried into the hall, to find Mrs Lemons weeping softly into Grandma Lolla’s handkerchief. Beatrix smiled sadly and pulled an arm around her mother. “Grandma will be okay,” she soothed softly. Mrs Lemons choked a little and looked up gratefully at her daughter, her tears shining. Beatrix smiled and clutched an envelope. “Grandma Lolla explained everything about Grandpa in this letter. I’m going to read this.” she smiled softly. Mrs Lemons managed a watery smile. Beatrix took a deep breath and removed the contents of the letter. A paper. Explaining Grandpa Larry’s wrongdoings, and why Grandma Lolla was anxious to keep him a secret. She was going to find out. Now. Dear Beatrix, I suppose I owe you an apology for making you wait to hear the truth darling. Well, all will be revealed now. Grandpa Larry was a thief. I loved him with all my heart. We were a poor family back then, Beatrix. We couldn’t afford many things, and seeing as Larry used to come from a rich family, he didn’t like it when he couldn’t give me something for my birthday, so when he couldn’t afford our children’s’ fees. And that’s when he started stealing. For me. Suddenly, Larry told us he had been offered a promotion. We were thrilled, I couldn’t tell you how happy I was. Every day after the "promotion", Larry used to bring us gifts, gifts that I couldn’t believe were true. I received diamond rings, rich necklaces and expensive bracelets. One day, I trailed him at work. I knew it was wrong of me to sneak, but I knew something wasn’t right. I caught him stealing out of a bank. I was too scared to point him in the right direction, scared he’d leave me with two kids and scared he’d abuse me. So I didn’t say anything. And that was my mistake. Months later, my husband was caught stealing a valuable diamond from the bank. He was sent to jail and our family name was a disgrace. People were disgusted by us, and he came in the newspaper, made the front page. I decided to keep his identity a secret, and we stopped contacting relatives to keep this a secret. I loved Larry with all my heart, and I knew he loved me too, but he didn’t have to steal for me. He didn’t, and I was devastated when I found out. That is the truth Beatrix, the ugly truth.


“So...how did you find out?” “Well, I came home yesterday and there was the cat strangling the mailman.” “Strangling the mailman? The cat??” “Yessir, cat strangling the mailman. You wouldn’t believe the noise and the...hey! Watch yourself now!” Ron and Paul were busy heaving the logs from one pile to another, and Ron very nearly had his head crushed by a pair of logs in the pile. They were relatively boring logs though, heavy as they were. The deep red wood stained the pairs satin overalls with each heave and the molten lead secreting from the bark lent itself to the rotten coconut smell in the air. They were ice cold to the touch. “Stupid logs. They really need to give us better tethers for these things. Somebodies gonna lose their grip on one of these and its gonna float off into the sky. Probably knock a plane out of the sky I bet. I’m telling you Paul this is ridiculous and that’s without this god damn smell!” Ron threw down his end of the log; it bounced harmlessly against the pile as it settled under the straps. “Yeah no kidding. But anyway...suffice to say I no longer have a cat and I’m not sure if they’re going to deliver the mail anymore. How the hell I’m supposed to get my checks I don’t know.” “Well did you tell them about the cat?” “Oh yeah, get this: they didn’t believe me! I dragged the man’s corpse into the lobby and you know what they said?” “What they say?” “They said that could be any offices postman! They told me I needed to prove it was theirs! What the hell??” “Fuckin' bureaucrats man.” “Fuckin' bureaucrats. Its fine though I just left the corpse there. Wasn’t about to drag it back all over town. People’d think I'm nuts or something.” “That'd be great though wouldn’t it? Walk into the butcher with your corpse in tow and you can just be like ‘What? It’s my dog!’” This elicited a hearty round of chuckling from some of the nearby workers. Paul just shook his head in exasperation. It was a very trying few days, and having to deal with a lawyer with blood on his hands was embarrassing enough. What was he going to tell his parents? He couldn’t use the cat strangling excuse again. That only works like, twice. The work bell rang just as they heaved the last log into place and strapped it down; though not very well. Paul wasn't paying too much attention as he had to fill out the rest of the dropship form. This load was off to Louisville to make some very fine bum-fodder. As they walked to punch out, Ron slapped Paul in the back reassuringly, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him close. He could see the worry on his face; it was the least he could do. “Listen, it'll work out. Worst thing that could happen is you lose half your stuff, and that ain’t so bad. Just gotta keep keepin' on you know what I mean?” “I s’pose so.” “That’s the spirit. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer and may be we'll beat up some school children, that sound like a plan?” “Yeah...yeah okay.” If there was one thing that could cheer Paul up after yet another cat-on-mailman strangling, it was assaulting children. The sun began to set behind the Lumber Yard as they trotted down the path back into their quaint little valley town; against the blinding orange light one could just make out a black object floating into the sky as a plane crossed the sun. Nobody heard the collision.


She lay flat but arched her neck. Looking up she covered her eyes in a vain attempt to protect them from the sun's daggers. The sand on her belly and her legs had dried and now fell away like cookie crumbs when she moved. She would try to lie still. It comforted her to have those little passengers on board. A thin cloak to cover skin that may not be ready to be so bare as she thought it was. She could make out his shape now, standing proudly over her. The drops of water as he waved his hands kept threatening to hit her when they fell but she did not think this would be unwelcome at all. It was hot. Perhaps too much so. It surely hadn't been this punishing a heat when she lay down on the shore for a moment to let the sandwiches and cold tea from lunch settle. That was a while ago now though. It must have warmed slowly. She was a frog in a boiling pot. Still, it didn't matter much. It was bearable. She was nothing if not stronger than your average frog. "I have seen the sea!" He proclaimed in a jaunty tone. The waves crashed behind him as timpani perfectly timed to accompany his exclamations. "Pardon dear?" She knew what he said but desperately loved the sound of his voice and wanted him to repeat it. A short song just for her. To hear him happy, this was what she longed for. It had been years since his voice had bounced so. "The sea! I have seen it. I will conquer it for you. Its horizons, I will venture into the angry blue beast until the water covers my head. Then, when I must swim, my arms will be like the fins of a dolphin and my legs will push me as a steamship's screws. I can swim forever in this. Come with me! Let's swim until we forget what land even looks like!" "And what if we encounter a shark? What shall we do then oh brave adventurer? "Shark? I fear no shark. No whale, no jellyfish, Man-O'-War or other variety. I fear nothing in the sea. Nor should you because I will be there. Shark? Ha! You have to stop worrying about the little things. Even the little things that are actually quite big and have many, many teeth." He smiled and broke character for just a moment, laughing a little at himself and his ridiculousness. She reflected that smile, as she had a thousand times before. "That's wonderful. Move a little closer, cover the sun with your shadow for me." He moved forward, his form cutting the light and giving her a tiny respite from the heat. His smile replaced the sun. Staring down at her the she could see could see just as much brightness in his eyes. She smiled back even more so. A duel. Who was happier? For just a second she closed her eyes to rest and when she opened them he was gone. He had not been there at all. The mind, when it wants, can paint such pictures. It can make you taste fruit you are not even eating. When it wants, the magician in your head will fool you every time. He was gone as he had been for fourteen months now. It wasn't as bright as before. Now she had to fear the sharks everywhere again. Still, it was hot, the sand was on her belly and the timpani continued to play.


It was just after the first big fundraising event of the year that Tom decided he wouldn't ride the skateboard to work anymore. After the fiasco with the paving crew and the tar fire he thought he shouldn't risk it. The Fire Chief had said that the all the guys in the crew were "good people," and wouldn't press charges but he wasn't sure, it had all happened so fast, and so he thought it best to avoid skating, at least for awhile. The problem that then emerged was he began having to walk to work. His shoes were worn through and the pavement was scratchy and bumpy. Tom knew he needed a fix. He stopped at the hardware store about halfway to the office. Tom approached the red-vested clerk at the register. "Any shoes?" he said. Just these." The clerk pointed at his own feet, no smile. His joke hung in the air like corrugated aluminum. Tom looked around. He had never been one to give up, and this sartorial matter was one he knew he could think his way through. He thought about wrapping his feet in a burlap sack, or maybe some heavy-duty trash bags. *There are many things one could use for shoes*, he thought. Tom wanted just the right thing though. He looked at the grill lids. "Too big!" he cried. He looked at the mouse traps. "Too small," he murmured. Finally, he found what he was looking for. The Croc knock-offs were extruded from plastic beads in a factory far, far, away. The hardware clerk had forgotten about them, his daily realm one of cash, candy, and copying keys, so far removed from the garden supplies in aisle 18. The croc-like footwear had holes much like Tom’s own shoes, but these holes were on the top rather than the sole, offering some nice ventilation for his toes and ankles. They looked leisurely, like a La-Z-Boy Boy for his lower half. Tom knew. These were what he needed. He headed to the register. "I'll wear them out." Tom said. The laconic clerk nodded and watched him leave. A new spring in his step, he headed for the office, the unique character of the new orange not-crocs inspiring different and exotic feelings in those Tom passed along the way. "Are you really wearing those?" said his silver-haired boss. The boss's diamond earing glittered in the glare from the window. "Wearing what?" "Crocs." They're not-crocs." "Oh. They look like them." "They're not Crocs." "You're crazy man." The not-crocs inspired Tom to partake in many activities that he formerly avoided. Rather than skateboard by the local garden patch, he would stop and weed on his way home, bending over in the not-crocs. Sometimes, instead of heading out to get a falafel, he would just microwave a hot pocket, then sit in his papasan chair and read a novel, balancing the paper-plated hot pocket on his bright orange shoe. *These not-crocs have really taken me to some places I never thought I'd go*, Tom thought, as he snapped a picture of the triceratops in front of the natural history museum. "Back in the day, I'd have just skated by this place, I thought it was just a playground for 8-year-olds. There’s a lot of history here though. And look at the way the light reflects off the bronze bony frill. What an amazing sculpture," he mumbled, talking softly to himself as he snapped another shot of the majestic dinosaur. "Come with me sir." the Capitol Mall policeman took Tom by the arm. The officer had been watching Tom take photos of children climbing on the bronze triceratops for the last two minutes. Any man wearing bright orange Crocs can't be up to any good, he thought, reaching for his handcuffs. "Wait! What did I do?" Tom said. "Sir, why are you taking pictures of children? Are any of them yours?" "No.


An old Toyota Corolla comes to a sputtering halt in a parking bay outside a slightly run-down strip mall. Jason glances over the lit up dashboard ignoring all warnings as he switches the car off, pulling the key from the ignition. "A simple oil change and plug replacement", he thinks while looking around for his wallet and phone. He opens the squeaky white driver's side door and makes his way as the early autumn of 2019 greets him with a gentle breeze. Jason's life has been in a state of disarray for a while now. Things hadn't been panning out after leaving his job to explore other avenues with whatever money he had saved. He decided to stop playing things safe, but went about it without first facing his demons. This led to an acute state of decay in his life due to a poisonous mixture of fear, anxiety, sorrow and regret, and this was further complicated by a one-two-punch of bad habits and laziness. He decided to change but felt he was lacking something. Perhaps millions in his bank account, or maybe something small like a thought, an idea, maybe a slight change in his own mindset. His search brought him to where he felt things began to go wrong in the first place. He took a brisk walk from his car to the far right of the strip. He marched purposefully towards the corner establishment. It was a cozy corner coffee shop with about six or seven tables. The parking spaces immediately outside the shop had been packed to capacity, possibly by the customers of the neighboring restaurants and diners. To Jason, the little coffee shop always seemed to pick up the look of surrounding establishments with its neatness and simplicity. Before even entering, you had the chance to admire its small granite counter with an old fashioned chalkboard menu. You may even sometimes see a single waitress darting about to attend to customers seated at rustic and tastefully stained woodgrain tables (which are probably older than you and I). A warm orange glow covers Jason's frame as he enters passing large glass doors that were bolted to the left and right. He thinks about how he unintentionally started dating his first girlfriend here while slowly gliding towards the counter. His eyes glance to the left to view a board listing out a new line of autumnal drinks. "A pumpkin spice latte with whipped cream and a blueberry muffin please", he requests softly. The teenager behind the counter accepts payment and thanks Jason as he turns toward a table after dropping his change in a tip jar. Immediately after sitting, he starts to reminisce about his first date with the beautiful Pamela Rose Parker when he is suddenly interrupted by Julia, the long time student waitress. Julia was a beautiful twenty year old brunette with a kind and wholesome outward allure about her (yet Jason still felt an intimidatingly intelligent undercurrent from her through their few interactions). Jason internally acknowledges her charm while exchanging pleasantries with her as she places his order on the table. Julia had just momentarily served as an unknowing (albeit welcome) refrain from Jason's wallowing. As soon as she leaves to fetch another order, Jason's attention shifts back to Pamela as he takes his first sip. Her beauty coupled with the spark he saw behind her eyes had thrown him. The black top she had worn two years prior at the table he currently sat at was on his mind, the one with the see through sleeves which seemed to float delicately above her evenly tanned skin. The conversation of years passed were still ringing clearly in his ears as he pondered his honesty in contrast to her empty words. Her desperate proposition for romance between them when he knew it was too soon for her. Her claim to "love" him though she knew little about him. The date that came out of what was supposed to be just coffee between friends. This was the place where it both started and ended between them. Another mouthful of the delicious beverage goes down as his mind recalls how smart she seemed at the time, her dream of political advocacy that she had revealed to him on the first date back in 2017. This revelation was soon followed by the romantic request that came just two months after her father had unfortunately passed away. Knowing it was too soon, Jason politely declined. Being the critical thinker he was, Jason realized his response may deepen her insecurities during this trying time. He followed up by saying that the reason he said no was because he felt that she was looking for commitment while he was looking for something casual. She said she had no problem with that as long as she was with him, and with that, what was just coffee between two friends has blossomed into their first date. The memory made him silently ridicule himself for seeing this as a sign of true love on her part and for being committed to her all those years ago. As vacant tables slowly start to fill up, he thinks about how the relationship deteriorated. The rich male "bestie" with the new Mercedes-Benz who continuously took her out to clubs, whom she had kissed and who she had received questionable pictures from. The distrust of her always looking through Jason's phone without returning the favor. Anxiety begins to grip Jason's chest as his eyes water. "Get over it, you're a man", he thinks. The cardboard vessel is slowly raised to his lips. The liquid enters and goes down without any real thought, an automatic process done to mask the burden of his thoughts, his mind racing to the breakup of 2018, their coffee shop, it ending where it started. He took it hard but understood. She still traveled with Jason to and from work, with him keeping to himself. In spite of this, she still flirted with him and went as far as showing the poor guy the correspondences she had with other men, possibly in a bid to make him jealous. Jason tried his best to take it in his stride while still being there for her as he truly loved her, something she knew but took for granted. Pamela, who's infatuation had either worn off or was a game from the very beginning, decided to take as much advantage of Jason as possible, the fool who had stuck by her when no one else would, not even family. Wrangling his mind back to the present day was done in vain as his thoughts again sharply shifted. With the next big gulp of his latte, he began to dwell on how quickly the thin veneer of her beauty and intellect disappeared to reveal the truth of the person he had fallen for. He thought of the lies, her chats with ex-boyfriends, how she uncharacteristically met up with her drinking buddies using scant clothing and her well hidden alcoholism and smoking. He still loved her and would have accepted her regardless (minus the male "bestie" and the chats with other guys and exes, obviously) if it hadn't been for one major problem, her lack of honesty in who she was versus who she pretended to be. With that, the memories began an assault on his mind. Other bad memories and thoughts started emerging while the ones that were already there seemed to play on repeat. They took his mind apart as he began to almost swallow what remained of his extra large beverage in one go. Everything inside him was rapidly coming to a head and every thought was about to erupt, when suddenly... silence. Jason savored the last sip of his latte as one coherent thought emerged from the recesses of his mind. What if he needed this experience? What if facing this resulted in him having the motivation to take risks and take a chance on himself for a change? The proverbial kickstart he needed to get to work on his hidden talents and bring them to the fore. The pain being the driving force required to quit his mediocre job because he now knows what he wants, a lesson taught through necessary pain. He had realized a truth that he should have figured out long ago. Suffering is sometimes required for growth. He relaxed in his chair for a moment, feeling physically lighter (although still a little uneasy as he had a lot of work ahead of him). Standing up, he pushed in his chair and left a few bills on the table as a tip for the waitress before heading for the door. As he started moving, he heard a soft but audible voice from behind the counter with, "Wait, you forgot your muffin!" Julia rushed forward with a small paper bag and swiftly packed the confection. She handed it to Jason with a genuine smile on her lightly-freckled face. "We're a lot quieter on Wednesday, you know where to find me if you need to talk", she projected warmly to Jason. Having realized that she probably noticed Jason coming in by himself as of late (plus, embarrassingly, she probably also noticed his silent struggle), he replied with an equally warm, "Sure." In the span of a cup of coffee, something in him had changed. He found what he was looking for and may have also made a new friend. He smiled as he entered his car thinking, "Today was an unexpectedly good day." He turned the key but the engine refused to start. "Not again", he said with a little chuckle. The End.


March 12 th , 2019 I’m bored; it’s three in the morning and my family lay sound asleep in their beds. I don’t remember when sleeping got to be so hard. I don’t remember when the dark started seeming like a friend. I relish daybreak in a completely new way since it became so hard to fall asleep. I am a restless soul; I need to move. Being confined to my room each night when I could be out in the moonlight is its own kind of torture. I’ve been having trouble sleeping for awhile now, maybe a year? Then again, I’ve never been quick to fall asleep, ever since I was a girl. Now I am seventeen and sick of lying still in the dark, waiting for sleep to steal over me in the early hours of the morning. My school allows me to wear makeup so that hides the blackish bags that are now permanent fixtures on my face. However, I got sent to see the school counselor after I drifted off during class and she made me tell her what was going on. It was either tell her what was going on or she would call my parents and that would have led to yet another fight with them. She recommended that I keep a journal, and I guess that, for lack of things to do at night, I am going to at least try. March 15 th , 2019 Whenever I manage to sleep it is always a light and restless sleep. I am visited by odd dreams that sometimes have an H.P. Lovecraft vibe. I marvel at their strangeness. The only problem is the fact that the dreams only linger for a few wonderous moments once I wake up, after that they fade back into the dark corners of my subconscious from which they were born. Right now, I am staring at the digital clock on my desk and its kind of hard to read the numbers with my contacts out. I suppose I had better look for my glasses, but that would require being able to see to find them. Thanks to the fact that I take out my contacts each night before I get into bed, I will be finding jack shit right now. I look for them tomorrow. I have a splitting headache from straining my eyes to write the words on this page right now and I am getting dizzy. I have decided that the clock says 3:47 AM. Goodnight. March 17 th , 2019 I found my glasses yesterday and I am wearing them now. My headache is ever present, but I have grown used to it. The throbbing in my head is like the beat to song that only I know. I flit about my room; I have memorized each object’s place and I can tell now when something has been moved or when someone has entered. These four walls confine me every night and now they are my most hated jailors. They hold and inside them my deepest secrets and they protect me from the elements, yet they also trap me in the dark when I wish to be free in the starlight. March 24 th , 2019 The nights repeat and repeat, an endless cycle of boredom. Every night is the same and I tire of the routine. I lie awake waiting for my parents to fall asleep, I message my friends until they also tire and drift off into dreamland, I haunt the kitchen and I scavenge for any tasty morsels, I pace the same hallways of this same house night after night, and I wonder; will it ever change? Will I ever fall asleep quickly and sleep tight till the morning? I wonder if once I’m married and when I have children of my own; I will still lay awake by my husband’s side as he slumbers soundly? Years from now will I still fight this losing battle against my oldest companion, insomnia? I can’t help but hope that in the near future this unwanted presence weighing down on me may soon evaporate into the night from which it came. April 1 st , 2019 I have made a discovery, a brilliant one if I do say so myself. I have discovered how to remove the screen on my window noiselessly and quickly. I can also now put it back in place perfectly. My bedroom may be on the second floor, but there is a slightly slanted roof right below it. Once I drop down onto the garage roof, I can simply run along it to where it ends and right below, against that wall there is a concrete box that houses our generator. It is a short hop down and then I am pretty much just a few feet of the ground. This may seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but I now have unrestricted access to the outside world each night. The best part is that my parents sleep soundly, and lord knows they have never once bothered to check on me once I shut my door each night. I can now come and go as I please, I am free. I can go to the clubs, go out to 24/7 diners, I can go to the beach, I can do anything I want to. My walls shall no longer be my jailors, and the nighttime is forevermore mine. April 5 th , 2019 Tonight is the night. Tonight, I shall test out my new escape plan. Anyone who has strict parents knows about those late-night parties that you never get to go to, well tonight I’m going to meet up with my best friend Millie and we are going to a beach bonfire. Finally, my wasted nights will amount to something. No longer shall I lie awake pondering my desolate future, maybe tomorrow I’ll write about the party but for now, this journal is going back in its hidey-hole. April 6 th , 2019 I have decided that I will not write of my nightly outings. I may write beforehand, but my escapades belong to the night. Speaking of the night; last night at the bonfire I met a girl. She had the most gorgeous black tresses falling to the small of her back and milky white skin. Her eyes shone like obsidian and she was a slender and short at the same time. We danced for hours and I learned so much yet so little about her. I had never seen her before last night, yet she felt so familiar to me, it was strange. In the end we were the last to leave the beach and when I asked her why she was there so late, she told me that it was because she didn’t sleep at night. “The nighttime is the right time to live,” she said. “I sleep during the day, or sometimes not at all. What does it matter? I know I can never fall asleep at night,” she sighed. “I lay awake and I wonder,” she admitted. “I feel no need to dream because I dream with my eyes open as I revel each night.” I remember her laugh, its cool bell tones washing over me as we stood in the light of a million stars. I hope to see her tonight, there is a party in one of the high-end night clubs in the center of town. April 7 th , 2019 I saw her last night, or rather this morning. We met at the nightclub and we danced for hours again. At 2 in the morning we wandered the streets and ended up in a little café. I asked more about herself, where she was from and she told me a sad story with a beautiful ending. She was born in the darkness and was left in the streets. She went from home to home and yet nobody wanted her. She searched for a place she would be welcome and recently, she told me, she had found one. She found a place where she was loved, and she intended to stick around. I’m elated by the fact that I will see her again tonight. Last night she told me she wanted to go to the city park. So tonight, that is here we will meet. She loves nature and I believe that that’s because deep down, she is like me, a wild restless soul. I feel so identified by her, so at home with her. My nights of lying in bed, waiting for the day are no more. Now my insomnia has has given me life’s greatest gift of all; her. April 8 th , 2019 I feel need to write of her each time I see her. I wish to record her every word and capture her magical laugh with each letter. She is something so pure it is almost otherworldly. I hope to portray her essence in these pages so that one day someone else will be able to know her even if they never meet her. For I have learned a secret; only I can see her. It scares and excites me at the same time. It means that she is mine forever, yet I fear I am crazy. I am torn in two, yet she is ever stronger, pulling towards her until we collide. Last night at the park was amazing. She kissed me. I had never kissed a girl before, never thought to, but it was breathtaking. Her lips were cool against mine and the tasted of a northern wind and dewy grass. We lay side by side last night as her mouth and mind told me tales of faraway places and things that could only be said or seen in the dark. She regaled me with tales of her nighttime escapades throughout the years and I was left in awe. Tonight, she is taking me to the woods where she says she has roamed many nights before. I am anxious to see her once more for during the day she is nowhere to be found and no one knows her. April 9 th , 2019 I believe that tonight shall be my last night writing. Last night she sheltered me away to a clearing deep in the woods to the south of town. She showed me something, she told me her secret, she explained everything. In the clearing deep in the woods to the south of town I finally asked her what her name was. She told me she had many names, and that she was from many cultures. She told that her favorite name is Bella Noche. Then I suppose something clicked. She is the night, or rather an embodiment of it. She offered me a place by her side. There are many embodiment's of the night she told me; it means something different to each person. I am going to join her and revel forever more in the moonlight and no longer shall I lay in wait for dawn. I am no longer a victim of insomnia; I am blessed with the ability to stay by her side each night. For I love my beautiful night as I shall never love another; her moonbeam kisses and starlight eyes forever mine.