For the past couple of weeks my mom has been sending me flight deals to my email. She'll see a sale, and send it to me. New promo, it's in my inbox. Great deal on flights to Vegas, you bet it's coming my way. Trip to Cuba? I'm getting that too. It started as a few sparse emails here and there, but its become an every other day kind of thing. At first, I was really confused. I didn't understand what brought this on. I travel somewhat frequently for work so I just figured she was trying to be helpful, but to be honest, it kind of annoyed me. I'm the co-founder of a start-up and my inbox is flooded every day. I unsubscribe to mailing lists that don't add value like its a hobby, so a constant torrent of flight deals really wasn't doing it for me. In addition to that, deals from airlines aren't really useful because we book our business flights through a business account on Expedia anyways. But there's a lot more to it than just emails, I think. My mom is disappointed and sad. I spend time with her and I know I'm a good son, but there's nothing that can be done to change this. I know her life didn't turn out the way she wanted it to. Sure, her and my dad live in a beautiful house, but when you peel things back a few layers, things aren't all that great in her mind and from her perspective. Her parents, her best friends for the longest time, are ageing significantly and her mother is unwell. My grandparents aren't the same people they used to be. My dad, despite being the greatest dad he could have been, isn't the smartest man and made a number of financial decisions that he wasn't honest about and kept things from my mom. He never could live up to her hopes that she'd find someone like her father - successful, stoic, family first always, a real man's man. She's always been disappointed in that. To top it all off, my siblings have left the house, and at 27, I'm the only one left. Half my foot is out the door already; my girlfriend closed on a condo a few months ago. The one thing that my mom has poured herself into are her kids. She was a stay at home mom and invested in us like her retirement was banking on it. She's the go-to for our family, even with my brother and sister out of the house. If something's wrong, mom is one of the first calls. Feeling unwell? She knows all the signs and symptoms of every disease (both discovered and yet researched). Need financial advice? She's a tax master. Need a special type of doctor? She's got you covered. She's the glue that brings everything together. Sure, she's a classic helicopter parent, always wanting to be involved, always engaged, and always disappointed as her kids age and they pull back into their own lives and families, but she's never stopped loving, and she never will. I remember a year ago I got my truck stuck in the mud, and I ruined this pair of fancy suede boots I was wearing while getting unstuck. I threw them in the trash, and unbeknownst to me she took them out, got them cleaned by some magician shoemaker, and they looked almost new. That is who she is; she's our family's fixer. Last night I was staying at my girlfriend's talking to her about the flight emails. I hadn't thought twice about them, but when I told her I asked my mom to stop sending them, I burst into tears. In that instant, I came to the realization that the emails weren't about the flights. They were a sign. They were a flash of love. I'm thinking about you. I care about you. I hope this helps. I love you. Despite her life changing before her eyes, despite everything she knows falling away from her, despite her sadness, she just wanted to show me she cared. I messaged her last night to tell her to keep the flight emails coming. She asked if I was sure. I said I was. I got one this morning.


I would never have thought that Mr. Arnold was a meathead back in the day. That’s the thing about time. It’s like an Instagram post you’ve run through a hundred filters. It gets to the point where you wouldn’t even recognize where that final image started. I believe the film buffs call the story that is about to unfold a ‘romp.’ Buckle up. You’re not gonna believe where this one is going. I sure didn’t. Our story begins when the substitute English teacher drops the “C” word. The tea is that they caught the cancer late--like Stage 4--and spread to the brain--late. Oof. Everyone turns to their phones and gets to work. Albie, our resident snoop, digs up the 1994 high school yearbook from the library in no time flat and strikes gold. The picture starts trending on social media and immediately goes viral--at least by Bayside High standards. “Billy Biceps,” the caption reads. It is unmistakable. It is Mr. Arnold alright. A teenage version. Flashing that double bicep pose like the Austrian Oak himself, except while sporting a bad eighties mustache and shaggy do. Something needs to be done. Mr. Arnold can’t go down like this. Not on my watch. Gear is a bitch. A real ticking time bomb. If only he had never started juicing. He probably would have never got cancer. Let’s back up. Mr. Arnold isn't just our High School English teacher; he's much more. He’s the one who wrote out Jay-Z lyrics in the style of E.E. Cummings. The one who assigned us “A Wrinkle in Time.” And explained how time travel a/k/a tessering worked in the book--sound being transformed into light and warping space to transport you where you need to go. “All you have to do is close your eyes and hum,” Mr. Arnold said. And in typical Mr. Arnold fashion, he started humming out “Sweet Home Alabama.” Mr. Arnold is a real one. The cool teacher. “Oh, Captain! My Captain!” All that. Everyone in our class comes to him first before their parents with any life crisis that comes up. He's the one our parents complain about. And for me, he is “The Dude.” The Dude who said, “Does anyone else think they can catch lightning in a bottle like Aiden, just did” while reading the poem I submitted to the student Lit Mag aloud to the class. And Inaya heard him say it. Inaya, you could say, is a Heather. If you know what I mean. Inaya snaps me, with the Bitmoji of her face in a Spider-Gwen costume popping up on my iPhone, and the text comes in saying, “I was tired from a late-night pre-cal sesh. Then I was bored during AP Bio. Now I’m tired of being bored. So, I’ve spent the last half hour breadcrumbing my Stanny-Stan-Stan. Anyway, you hear about Mr. Arnold?” Stan is a fan. But like a fan who is obsessed. Eminem. Marshal Mathers. Bueller. Is anyone getting this? I snap her back instantly, telling Inaya to meet me in the library. Inaya’s already there, waiting by the circular stacks, wearing a fire ensemble. Shit, to be honest, her whole vibe is fire. I pull her into one of the study rooms. “We’ve got to find one of the teachers who went to school with Mr. Arnold, stat,” I say. “And what good is that gonna do?” “Intel. We need intel. If we are going to help Mr. Arnold, we need to get the real tea. Find out how this started and how deep into the sauce he was. Like, was this a summer of love type of thing, or was he like a genuine, Jersey Shore, GTL Gorilla?” “No cap, Aiden. Mr. Arnold gives off strong GTL Gorilla vibes.” “Facts.” “Is it just me, or was young Mr. Arnold dripping with rizz? Talk about a Glow-up. Minus the stash. The stash has to go.” “I didn’t think you were into buff dudes?” “Teenybopper Mr. Arnold is a whole meal. We could smash.” “Jesus.” “I’m kidding! It’s Mr. Arnold. Don’t be so salty. Besides, I’m saving myself for Timothée Chalamet.” “Timothée Chalamet is a bad meme. An AI composite. I mean, really. What, did Timmy ask you to Homecoming?” This isn’t idle chat. I’m trying to work up the courage to ask Inaya to Homecoming but feel like I’m choking on my tongue. “No. Still waiting on Timmy. Sigh. A girl can dream. Let’s go find that yearbook.” She didn’t take the bait. So, that’s an L. “I’d go with Mr. Arnold though,” she teases. “Or some young stud that comes up with an ingenious plan to save his... manly bits?” “Done and done,” she says, smiling. Maybe there's a chance after all, I think. Inaya and I scour some old yearbooks and finally realize that Ms. Paino was a classmate of Mr. Arnold, back before the button-downs and sweaters and the spectacled readers. I find Ms. Paino in the teacher’s lounge. I’m on the AP track and in the running for one of the runners-up slots for valedictorian. Therefore, I’m grandfathered into barging into the teacher’s lounge unannounced. “Aiden, what are you doing here?” “I need the tea on Mr. Arnold, spill it,” I say. “What do you mean? About his illness?” “About the nineties. How did our resident Mr. Rogers lookalike get on the gear?” “Oh, that. So, you saw the Billy Biceps pic that’s going around, and you think...” “Think. I know. Now spill it.” “If you really want to know... I suppose it's harmless. It all started when Billy's high school girlfriend dumped him for a jock right before Homecoming. What was her name? N-Nnn-Na. What was it? Nad-ee-ah. Nadia. That’s it. How could I forget? A tall drink of water. Came over with her family from St. Petersburg, and she had that husky, deep, Russian accent. All the boys were eating it up. Climbing over one another to get her attention. They were all jealous of Mr. Arnold for punching her dance card. Nadia, though. She was looking to trade up. Looking for someone buff. That’s how she ended up with Slater. Captain of the soccer team. I mean, he was a bit of a snack. Isn’t that how you all say it?” “Wait, what’s a ‘dance card?’ No, never mind. What happened when this e-girl ghosted Mr. Arnold?” “Billy ditched the Homecoming Dance. Ended up at the Blockbuster Video in the Taunton Strip Mall instead.” “Blockbuster?” “Think Netflix, with physical tapes you bring home to watch, then return.” “Tapes?” “VHS cassettes.” “Cahh-sets? Okay. Whatever that is.” “You had to rewind them too. ‘Be Kind. Rewind.’ That was their motto!” “Rewind?” “Well, it’s a physical tape, like a movie reel, so you had to put it in the VCR and press rewind or else it was a real pain for the next person. And sometimes when the staff was rewinding a tape a customer didn't rewind before returning, they’d put the wrong video in the case. That was the worst.” “VCR? Never mind. What happened?” “Anyway, they gave Billy the wrong VHS tape. A real, ‘Be Kind. Rewind’ faux pas. Instead of getting ‘Adventures in Babysitting,’ he ended up with ‘Pumping Iron.’ The rest was history. Billy hit the weights hard that spring and summer. Hard, hard. And he got... swole... as the kids would say. Then it became kind of like an addiction. Before you know it, he’s greasing himself up and entering competitions.” “So how does this ‘rewinding’ of the tape work?” “Uhhh, it is like a movie reel. There are little spools on the tapes and a spinning grip in the machine. The VCR uses a little motor. The wheels just turn in reverse. And the tape rewinds.” “Interesting. So, we’re talking, the fall of 1993. That’s when the big yikes happened.” “I suppose,” Ms. Paino said. “Shouldn’t you be in study hall?” “I’m on my way - right now - thanks!” * * * I walk through the hallways at a brisk clip, dodging the other kids and swearing revenge on Nadia, that no-good ratchet Russian cheater who left Mr. Arnold for Mr. Beefcakes! Now I know why he always sneered when referring to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov. The Russians , he would say, with emphasis, as if twisting his mustache in derision. Everywhere I go, I keep noticing a creepy 40-something dude in the hallway, looking like the only clothed person in a nudist colony. He is wearing a vintage Metallica T-shirt with white lettering on black. His bleach-blonde hair is styled in a mangy bowl cut. The first time I see him he’s cutting through the gym scuffing the coating on the laminate floor. Not two minutes later, I spot him down the hall coming around the corner to the cafeteria. The chances this guy has a hall pass are slim to none. This time he walks right up to me, grabs me by the shoulders, and says, “Aiden, it’s you.” “Uhh, yeah. And who are you?” “Eddie Edge,” he says, placing his hands on hips. “What is a... am I supposed to be impressed?” “You need to come with me. It’s about Mr. Arnold. There isn’t much time.” “Okay boomer.” “Follow me.” He starts speeding off toward the bus lot behind the cafeteria before I can catch up. “We’re going where? To do what?” “Look kid. I owe Mr. Arnold. I was a kid in his class years ago when he first started teaching. About twenty years ago now. What an inspiration! It’s something I’ve got to do. For all our sake.” “You have any proof?” “You could go back to the 1998 Yearbook and check me out on this. But there isn’t any time. The rift will only be open for about ten more minutes. By next period, it’ll be gone forever.” “So, what are you suggesting we do to help Mr. Arnold? Humor me.” “What else? Isn’t it obvious? We have to return to 1993 and make sure Mr. Arnold checks out the right flic at Blockbuster Video. Everything depends on it. If he never gets cancer, Inaya never dies...” “Inaya? Dies? What does she have to... Whoah. For real. Are you mental bro?” “I’m telling you right now that I’m here to take you back...” “And who, what exactly are you supposed to be?” “We’ve been over this. I don’t have time to explain. Try to keep up. We have to ride the short bus.” “That old relic in the bus barn? That hasn’t been used for years. What does that have to do with Mr. Arnold?” “Well, I’m not saying we ride it literally. We need to catch a vibe.” “A vibe? It’s giving... let’s see... an ’07 shaved-head Britney Spears vibe. Is that an old enough reference for you? You getting me, bruh ?” “We need to channel a time rift. A musical one. A real nineties vibe. And bridge that rift through space and time. Shred that wave until we clear the barrel and come out the other side 'Gleaming the Cube' style without getting ragdolled in the process. It is all vibrations. All thrumming strings. Like on a record. And you can rewind it. That’s how it works. Taking the short way around. Pun intended. You ever read ‘A Wrinkle in Time?’” “I’m shook. You are like, literally, the second person today explaining rewinding to me.” “Trust me. It’s easy. To get back to the fall of 1993 all we have to do is start playing ‘Linger’ by the Cranberries on repeat in the short bus. Works every time.” “Wait. You are saying time travel is sound based? Mr. Arnold told us something about that. Tessering. Are you saying that’s a real thing?” “You think it’s a coincidence, bruh? Come on kid. Or should I start calling you Meg? There’s no time to waste.” “Wait? You read Madeline L’Engle?” “Read it? I inspired it. Do you think she just made up Charles Wallace? I go by Eddie Edge, but obviously, that is not my real name. It’s copyright infringement, kid. Plain and simple. That girl should be in time jail.” Okay, okay. The explanation slaps. My mind is officially blown. Low key. But I am no fool. I text Inaya and Albie to hunt down the 1998 Yearbook. Stat. * * * Don’t ask me how this dough-brained cringeasaurus finessed me into accompanying him onto the short bus. When Inaya hadn’t even gotten back to me yet. Using a YA novel no less. Might as well have been dangling a bag of Skittles in front of a Highlighter Kid. Just saying it out loud sounds highly sus. But that is what’s happening right now. When we get out to the school bus graveyard, the short bus with its four rear windows is grinning at us. It is covered in hot pink, electric blue, and lime green stripes, and checkered with pastel graffiti. There is a pink baby elephant, a mint green alien in a flying saucer, and a lavender chimpanzee dangling from the top of the rear bay doors. There’s also a bright orange giraffe by the automatic door, giving boarding passengers the side eye. And the grill is painted like a grinning carnival clown. Eddie Edge steps inside first and sits in the driver’s seat. I come in and sit directly behind in the first row. He pulls a black rectangular thingy out of his pocket and sticks it into a slot next to the steering wheel. He turns his head back to me and says, “You ready?” I shrug. A haunting humming sound gives way to a catchy melody. It reverberates around us and the bus starts gently shaking. A haunting voice takes center stage, singing, “If you could return... do you have to... do you have to.” It was a vibe. It was giving me a headache. The bus was glitching now. The air was filled with static. I was getting a bit dizzy, like the way your eyes unfocus when you’re staring too long at a picture. “You know I’m such a fool....fooo--oooool.” “Jusss waittt. Close your eyes. The dizzzziiiinnneessss will fade. Just count back from ten.” By the time I reach one, all is silent. Solid. Still. As it should be. I open my eyes and we are at the Taunton Strip Mall. “Come on. There isn’t much time,” Eddie Edge says. And as we walk out of the bus, I notice there is no graffiti anywhere. A big blue sign on the front of the biggest storefront reads “Blockbuster Video” in bright block letters. “Alright, kid. You’ve got to head in there. The task is simple. Swap out the ‘Pumping Iron’ VHS that is in the wrong case for ‘Adventures in Babysitting.' Easy peasy. Got it?” “Oh, is that all,” I say. And I run up to the glass doors. * * * As I enter the store, I hear a jingling from a bell over the door. I take stock of my surroundings. Rows of cases line the shelves. There is a candy display at the counter. A popcorn popper going like gangbusters. A red curtain behind a section at the far end. There is a dopy stoner-looking dude at the counter, and a perky girl with an up-do next to him, chewing bubble gum, popping bubbles, and smacking her gums obnoxiously. And they are playing some movie on a weird boxy screen above the register. Some old flic with a gofer running from some guy in a bucket hat. I quickly try to problem-solve this bitch. Step 1. Find the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ tape. Step 2. Distract the lip-smacking candy girl. Step 3. Make the swap. Step 4. Get the hell out of dodge. Turning my head I see an aisle that says, “New Releases.” That must be where ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ is. But what about ‘Pumping Iron?’ That’s an older film. I make a b-line for the curtained room and pull back the curtain. Oh boy! The second I open the curtain I realize that I am in an age with no internet. It never occurred to me the lengths people had to go to back in the day. Jeez Louise! “Hey kid!” the stoner dude says, “Adults only. Can’t you read the sign!” I take the L, sulking back to the counter. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m looking for ‘Pumping Iron.’ You know where it is?” He shakes his head in disapproval. “Come with me, kid.” I follow the gangly dope head back to the stacks on the back wall. There is a sign indicating this is the ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger’ section. He immediately finds the cassette and opens it up. “Sorry kid, it looks like somebody checked this one out.” “Could you check?” I ask. “I really was looking forward to watching this one. Oh wait. What about ‘Adventures in Babysitting?’ I want to check that out too." We go back to New Releases section and he hands me the case. While the dope head checks the computer, I ask the Chewing Gum Girl for some popcorn. “How much do you want?” "Do you take ApplePay?" “Apple, what? It’s free with a purchase kid,” she says, angrily filling a tub and plopping it down on the counter. Spotting the rewind machine on the counter behind her, I knock over the tub. Chewing Gum Girl curses under her breath, comes over with a broom, and starts cleaning. I sneak around and spot the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ cassette in the rewinder and make the swap and I am back in the short bus in no time flat. “Not bad, kid.” “Thanks, Eddie. Or should I say Charles? Where to now?” “You’re riding solo, kid. Just pick any Taylor Swift song. You’ll be back in no time.” “Hey, you know what happens with Inaya and me?” “At Homecoming?” he asks. “Bussin!” I say, grinning ear to ear.


I read all the horror stories about being lost underground, and have seen all the movies. I always said that they were dumb as heck, it was their own fault for going down there. They should have known better, and I vowed to never put myself in that silly situation, yearning to breathe free above the surface. It didn't help that we lived near a huge cave system, literally at the bottom of a local mountain and an ancient river had cut holes all through the ground. People came from all over to explore, and we even had a minor celebrity or two lose their lives in our soil. Most of the town worked year round in the businesses of serving tourists. Highly prepared, generally, and with an air of self confidence and athletic builds (those all seemed so unafraid of the business in which they were engaged- diving into the pitch dark, squeezing through narrow corridors hundreds of feet beneath our toes). I would have moved to get away from the whole scene, but my house was cheap, and the neighbors were nice, I'd lived in the town my whole life. Nobody ever fell into a sink hole and ended up in a cave there at least. My friends, I'd likewise known for most of my life, and we enjoyed frequent drinking, and it led to a couple nights where I woke up without any memory of the evening before. I always ended up safely in bed, or sometimes passed out on my floor (with the sunlight streaming in directly strong and causing a full brain pounding headache), or in strangers porch (twice), or in a the town jails drunk cell (on one fateful Friday) when we stayed past last call at the neighborhood bar and upset the staff. My friends were likewise heavy drinkers and they also had nights where they blacked out drunk, we just took it as normal Fridays, and laughed about our debauchery as we regaled each other with stories of past weekends. I felt that the ground was calling out to me for a couple of weeks before the incident. I would hear whispers when I was driving by the parking lot to one of the most visited caves (which opened into a complex system), and I dreamed that I was walking near the mouth of a great cave, with stalagmites bearing out like giant teeth. I thought nothing of it, not believing in prophecies like any logical 21st century man, but one dream was so bad I couldn't fall asleep the rest of the night. I had a flashlight in that dream, and I walked into the cave, and it was full of monsters. I awoke in a cold fright, and felt them in the room with me, I had to turn on the lights, and when I closed my eyes I felt their hot breath and heard their ragged breathing. The next Friday, I planned to get extremely drunk, to get a good nights sleep (the monsters had been in my room, in my mind, again the night after, and the night after that). I certainly met that goal, and we were all three sheets to the wind by ten thirty, a rare evenings indeed. I wandered out of the bar for a smoke, and felt the chill of the November air. I heard the whispering again. It was plaintive and real, it was calling my name. I couldn't have resisted, as much as the rest of this might have been my fault, could you resist someone calling your name? I didn't realize it was the voice of the cave. The monsters. They knew I would be here, close enough. Just close and unaware enough tonight. They called my name, and I followed.  Edit: Bad idea. just survived..


Henry doesn’t remember how he ended up here, walking in a forest at night, without a phone or anything. Being led by an orange tabby cat, with the sense he should follow it. He was going somewhere; he knew that much. Where or why, he has no clue only that he needs to get there, urgently. He scans his surroundings, pine trees stretching over him menacing, their branches giving off shadows that resemble hands reaching out. No moon in sight, but the shining stars in the midnight blue sky, with enough light that he's not walking blindly in the dark. And able to see the cat clearly to notice the whites of his paws and chest leading to his under belly, his dark orange stripes on his body and around his face. The cat is not his; he knows that too, he also knows it's a boy cat. The forest and the orange tabby are not familiar to him. The cat struts ahead, his movements fluid and dainty, as cats are, with an air of superiority and in no hurry. His orange tail is down, swaying back and forth. Henry wonders if he died or is hallucinating to be expecting a cat to rescue him out of the forest. He tries to rack his brain for information, but comes up blank, can't even remember when the cat first appeared. He blows out a sigh, running his hands through his hair, glancing around him. Henry shakes his head, chuckling to himself, wondering why he's still following this cat. As if he's in a child's fairy tale, on a quest to save the world. He stops, turning back around- Stop. Henry spins around, searching, but finds no one. He cast his eyes down, blue eyes staring back at him. The orange tabby tilts his head, unblinking, the black pupils thin vertical lines. Henry frowns, squinting back up into the forest. He heard someone; it was male's voice, it sounded close by. The person said stop. "Hello? Anyone there?" Henry asked, walking past the tabby. "Can you help me? I'm lost." Yes. I can help if you follow me. Henry doesn't need to look back to know who’s talking to him. His stomach drops, his blood turns to ice, and his heart speeds up. He closes his eyes, telling himself he's not crazy. That this must be a dream. Yes, surely a dream, or he had too much to drink and passed out. Except he's never been a big drinker, or does drugs, besides eating a few laced brownies as a teen. Are you going to stand there all night, or do you want me to lead you out of here? Henry gets the overwhelming feeling he should keep following the cat. But why? He holds in the urge to shout, to burst out laughing, and slap himself. He's gone crazy, or maybe he was already crazy. Either way, he decides that if he is crazy, or this is a dream, he might as well follow the orange cat. The orange talking cat. Before he turns around, Henry inhales, clenching his hands, his feet scraping the dirt as he turns. Two sets of glowing eyes stare back at him. The cat is sitting on his hind legs, his head still tilted, unblinking. An irrational sense of fear and danger hits Henry straight in the chest. Henry feels as if his soul is on display, being judged by a cat that doesn't blink, unnaturally still. Henry shifts from foot to foot, unable to tear his eyes away, the tabby's own sucking him in. The blue glowing eyes unnerve Henry, causing him to take a step back, but then tells himself that it's normal. The darkness makes it seem like they're glowing, but it's just the light reflecting on them, because the cat is a nocturnal animal. Nothing creepy about that. Yet, the feeling doesn't leave him, and he doesn't understand why he has the feeling. The tabby gets up, blinks once, twitches his nose and makes his way towards Henry, who is holding his breath, still as a statue. The cat rubs against Henry's leg, from his head to his tail. His tail wraps around Henry's ankle before letting go. He glides past Henry, staring straight ahead. Follow me. Henry unlocks his muscles and follows the cat, shaking his head for being freaked out by a damn cat. But, he keeps his distance between them, half of his brain telling him the cat is dangerous and the other half, that the cat is helping him. If only he knew how he got here and why. Henry rubs his temple, a headache coming on. Great, he thinks, what else could go wrong? Passing by a tree, he stretches his arm, knocking on wood. At least it's not cold, wearing only jean pants and a t-shirt. He frowns, realizing he should be, it was autumn. Henry stops in his tracks, eyes wide as he remembers something. It was autumn; the leaves should be shades of brown, orange, and red, not green. He looks around him, seeing green everywhere. The leaves, bushes, and grass. The air is warm and filled with fragrance from flowers that have bloomed too. It's springtime here. Something else, he realized, spinning back to the cat. He wasn't talking out loud. The cat was talking in his head telepathically. Henry groans, shooting pain exploding in his head. He shuts his eyes, pressing his hands to his forehead. Don't stop. Keep walking. Henry opens one eye. The cat is watching him, unblinking, the pupils of his eyes becoming thinner against the sparkling blue. His left ear twitches, turns his head and continues. Henry goes after him, the heel of his palm on his forehead, pressing down. Henry squints in the forest, keeping his eyes down. It's darker in this part of the forest, he could barely see the trees. Nothing more than tall dark shapes. He glances at the cat. The urge to run from it still yells at him. "Where are you taking me?" Henry asks. The cat keeps walking, not acknowledging Henry as he steps over a twig. Henry watches his tail flicking back and forth, getting distracted. Does it matter, as long as he gets out? Goes home, to his one bedroom, small, expensive apartment in New York City. Noise from all directions, honking and shouting in the streets below, footsteps above him, and the muffle sounds from his neighbor’s next door. To walk down the corner of his street, avoiding getting trampled by a hoard of people in a hurry, oblivious to others around them, their mind set on arriving at their destination. To wait in a line in a coffee shop to buy an eight-dollar cup of coffee. All he wants is to go home, to the city that he loves. Henry halts, his heart increasing. He lives in New York. In the city, miles from a forest. Something shouts at him to run from the cat. The cat will only lead him to danger. The pain comes back, hitting him like a boulder. We're almost there. Don't stop now. Henry clutches his head, almost collapsing from the pain. He gazes up; the cat sitting and staring at him again, his tail curling around his legs, lifting and falling. His yellow eyes unblinking. Doesn't his eyes ever blink, Henry wonders? They just stare at him, through him, luring him. The cat sits up, studying Henry, before he bolts. His shape disappearing in the shadows. Something compels Henry to run after the tabby. The cat will bring him back home, he's sure of that. He runs after it, before a feeling tells him not to. Henry screams, standing still, looking between where the cat went and behind him. Henry doesn't know what to do, who to trust, where he is. He knows nothing. He just wants to leave this place. Henry burst out laughing suddenly, running his hands through his hair and tugging them. He's insane, that's it, none of this is real, it's all his imagination. He's in a coma, this is a dream, he's high, imagining this all. Follow me. I will lead you to safety. Henry twists his head to see the cat walking away from him, his orange tail swaying. Henry numbly goes after him. He follows a few feet, narrowing his eyes to see the ground in front of him. He trips on a rock, catching himself on a tree. Henry rights himself, and stares into the dark. He gasps, realizing the forest has not just become darker to see from the trees blocking out the sky, but that the forest is darker. The green from the leaves is the color of ebony, the trunks are blending from brown to charcoal, the brown dirt grows darker. And they changed not only the color, the forest is morphing into an empty pitch black space. Follow me. The cat is standing in the middle of the darkness, the orange and cream color of his fur sticking out, calling Henry with his eyes. Henry's feet inches forward, his left hand drops to his side, but stops. He steps back, his face pale, the sound of blood pumping in his ears. He bumps into the tree, gripping the trunk, his chest rising and falling. The cat walks forward, his eyes burning through Henry. Henry turns away, running. He looks back to see two pairs of yellow eyes chasings him. Yellow eyes that were blue. The cat had blue eyes. The pupils are gone too, only yellow glowing eyes. Henry pumps his legs faster, twisting his head back every often, dread washing over him. The tabby chases after him, paws pushing him forward, his movements agile. Henry trips over his feet, hitting the ground hard, his right shoulder taking the blunt. He lifts his head, watching behind him as the orange and white of the fur turn jet-black, his limbs disappearing, losing the cat shape of his body. Transforming into a shadow, growing and becoming solid. But the eyes stay the same glowing yellow. Unblinking. Holding Henry in place. Henry shakes his head, breaking the hold on him, and scrambles to his feet. Eyes darting around, he watched in horror as the forest transformed into an abyss. Henry screams, but they get swollen up into nothingness. He looks over his shoulder in time to see the shadow reaching out, scratching Henry's left leg. Henry falls over, crawling to his hand and knees, getting up. He runs faster and faster, not looking back anymore. He could feel the shadow on his hills, he could feel the intensity of his eyes locked on him. Henry is in an abyss, running with nowhere to hide and no way out. Tears fall down his face, mixing with his sweat, his legs burning, panting for air, shouting that he wants to go home. The shadow lashes out, shedding his shirt, and nothing else, missing him. Henry loses his balance, though, falling over again. He keeps falling and falling and falling, darkness all around him, yellow eyes glaring down at him. Henry wakes, taking a sharp intake of breath, jolting up. A car horn blares in the street below him. Henry gasps, rubbing his face with shaking, clammy hands. He glances around him, running his hands through his sheets, gaining comfort, and slows his accelerated heart rate. He breathes through his nose heavily, searching for the shadow or cat in his bedroom. Morning light coming through his curtains banishes the shadows, easing the nerves in Henry. With his adrenaline slowed down, he finally notices the stinging pain in his left calf. He pulls his sheet away, twisting his leg over to see three deep scratches. **** There is an orange tabby cat with blue eyes that turn yellow. He lives in people's dreams, in their nightmares. Leading them deeper into a forest to kill them. A way to survive him is not to look into his eyes, which is how he tricks people, or a fast runner.


Keith liked to watch the fish. To see them shoot through the water like silver bullets was always captivating. Their streamline forms so elegant and beautiful, the water parting before them with a graceful bow as they twirled and danced in their private watery world. To be admired such as these fish was Keith’s dream. Sadly, Keith could never be on the receiving end of such admiration and desire. How could he? Keith is a banana. A lowly, rather typical, dull, banana. There was nothing special about Keith, and he knew it. He was much the same as any of the other bananas in his bunch where they sat squarely in a wicker basket in the food court. The only thing to set him apart was his rather peculiar dream of becoming a fish. Or at least to be seen as a thing of beauty much in the same way he saw those wonderful fish. To be craved and envied as much as those slippery angels that torment him with their lustrous figures and tantalising performances. He’d watch their lithe bodies dart back and forth, envying their grace and slender frames compared to his sluggish rounded curves. The other bananas didn’t seem to care much for the fish, or of anything at all for that matter. They didn’t spend their days longing to be something they weren’t, something they never would be. They didn’t do a whole lot of anything, Keith thought. They just sit there in silence, blissfully unaware of the magnificent splendour taking place right in front of them. Oh how they were missing out on nature at its finest. This was a good thing, Keith thought. It was a good thing that he was the only one capable of appreciating the finer things the world has to offer. It contented him to know that the spectacles of the fish were for him and him alone. If only he could venture further, beyond the confines of the bunch, beyond the food court, beyond the barrier that separated his mundane existence from their splendour. To join them in their watery performance. To be seen as something as remarkable as them. But alas, he was not destined to penetrate the firmament which held back the briny heavens that those beautiful fish lived in. He would just have to live with the fact that he was nothing but a simple banana who would never be seen as anything more. It was a shock when, one day, while enjoying the show, Keith felt a sudden rush of air as he was hoisted into the sky. A great being held him as if he was nothing, a tiny insignificance in its mighty grasp. His stomach dropped as fear crept up his spine and filled his heart with dread. The ground swayed and tumbled in a dizzying display of colours as he was lofted ever higher until he was staring into the face of God. Then he saw it, in the eyes of the deity that swept him away. Staring back at him was a look of joy and of lust. A warmth seeped throughout his entire being as the opulent diamond blue eyes drew nearer, a smile forming across a widening maw. This warmth was what Keith had craved all this time. The feeling of being wanted and appreciated for just being himself, a banana. He couldn’t believe that God had chosen him, an average and clunky fruit, over that of the silvered works of art swimming behind them. As his outer layer was slowly peeled away, despite the pain it causes him, Keith closed his eyes with a smile on his face as he welcomed what was to come and basked in the delight of being desired even more than those remarkable fish.


I was walking, and she was walking. I was running, and she was screaming. I was crying, and she was bleeding. A crowd formed around me, holding her. I couldn't call the ambulance, I was so in shock that all I could do was hold her as I sobbed. I screamed her name several times, shaking. *Shaking, shaking, shaking.* Blood trickled down her head, taking two different paths as it reached her nose. My thumb smudged the blood that found its way to her right cheek. Sirens could be heard from a distance, getting closer. Soon, paramedics took her away and I followed. *"What happened?"* One paramedic said to me. *"What?"* I said, confused, no not confused, *scared.* *"I-I don't know what happened. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know!"* I couldn't believe what was happening. What if she dies? No, I can't think like that. I can't *afford* to think like that. Losing her would be like losing my heart. I can't live without her as much as I can't live without my heart. Before I knew it, I was in her hospital room, sitting beside her body. I wasn't sure if she was even breathing, she had to be, though. Her heart rate was there, barely, but it was there. I held onto her hand, hoping she'd live, *knowing* she'd live. "I love you." I whispered. I swear she mouthed it back, her lips moved, *she moved*. *Beeeeeeep.* Silence. Panic. My heart stopped. *Her* heart stopped.


Lynette wished that people would stop telling her, “Of course we would understand completely if you didn’t want to go through with this,” and then promptly, in those bright well-meaning voices, try to persuade her exactly why she should . I know all about persuasion, she thought, and you’re not even very good at it . She hurriedly reminded herself that it was to their credit, and to her benefit, that they weren’t very good at it. Only Gran-Jan seemed to genuinely respect her views. Even long after putting aside childish things (many of which she had taken up again later one) she had carried on using that pet name for her Grandmother Janet. Lynette was a person who didn’t give her trust or affection easily, though she was not as chary of either as she used to be, but she trusted Gran-Jan completely, and loved her dearly. It hadn’t always been that way. There had been a time when she hated her and resented her and screamed and flailed and called her the cruellest names she could think of, and when you had been one of the Witnesses of the Dawn you had a pretty good repertoire of cruel names. Yet she had borne it all, from two-faced whore to Satan’s Lackey with equanimity. Though of course, as Lynette realised later she must have been in despair and inner turmoil. Lynette was, effectively, a motherless child. But she could honestly say it had never bothered her, and in that instance, it wasn’t cruelty. She had never known her mother, who died soon after she was born of a strain of septicaemia that people thought was more or less resigned to history in Western Europe. She had now read books, and articles about real life, where a grieving husband in those circumstances turned against the baby. But her Dad hadn’t turned against her. He adored her, and she was his solace and hope. He was also sensible enough to know that she did need a female presence in her life, and she didn’t lack for that. Gran-Jan only lived a couple of streets away, and her Auntie Glenda in the next town. Though she didn’t see her Dad’s mum, Grandma Elaine, as much, she knew that she cared for her and thought of her. So she grew into a happy and confident little girl. Though she was an early and fluent reader, her Dad carried on reading aloud to her, and her nickname, his special name for her, was rooted in one of the favourites from her early childhood. She had loved Henny-Penny and he called her Linny-Pinny . Gran-Jan told her later that she had been pleased, to start with, when her dad started spending time with Joyce. “I was sure your Mum would never have wanted him not to know a woman’s love again,” she said, “She was a generous and loving woman.” But even at eight years old, Lynette heard a note in Gran-Jan’s voice that made her wonder. She doesn’t really like Joyce , she thought, and it’s not because she minds anyone going out with Dad ! It wasn’t long before she began to notice subtle little differences in her dad. Though she had never been spoilt and was expected to behave, he was a tolerant man and an easy-going father. For instance on the subject of bedtimes. She was nominally supposed to be in bed at 9, but he knew full well she often kept the light on and read long after that, and as long as she didn’t seem over-tired and kept up with her schoolwork he turned a blind eye. But one day he told her that there was to be no reading after bedtime, and that he wasn’t sure the books she was reading were suitable either. The next day she found that at least half of her books were removed, and in their place were some books with pictures of children praying and oddly menacing angels, not a bit like the ones in the school Nativity play. She told Gran-Jan all about it, and she was put in a difficult position. She had always maintained that though she worshipped the ground Lynette walked on, and would always help out when needed, and be delighted to do so, on matters of discipline she would never go against Lynette’s dad’s wishes. But this time she went so far as to say, “Joyce is very religious, I think.” Later she told Lynette that she realised that was probably the worst thing she could have said, and yet she didn’t regret it. “I don’t want her to be my Mum. EVER.” “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, lovey. Just mind your manners and make sure your dad carries on being proud of you.” Lynette had never gone to church very often, but when she had, she hadn’t minded at all, whether it was for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve (oh, how grown up and magical it was!) or for her little cousin Archie’s christening, or for the school Harvest Festival. She thought she wouldn’t mind going more often. Well, when Joyce entered their lives, she changed her mind about that. Joyce didn’t go to a nice church like St Anthony’s with beautiful stained glass windows and a kindly vicar like Reverend Jack. Joyce took her and her dad to a place she called a House of Mission where there were no beautiful windows, and no lovely music, and no kindly vicar. There were endless sermons, and endless warnings. Then came the day when her Dad said, “Lynette, Joyce and I are going to get married. Will you wish us blessings?” She remained mutinously silent. He went on, “And we’re going to live in a special house out in the countryside.” At that Lynette perked up, just a little, just for a few minutes. She loved the countryside. But some precocious prescience told her that this wouldn’t be at all like the countryside on holiday or in story books. She knew that Gran-Jan wasn’t happy about it. She said she was in two minds about going to the wedding, but Joyce “solved” that problem anyway by saying, “We mean you no disrespect, Mrs Anderson, but only members of our congregation are allowed to attend our services. We make exceptions for under 10s who are close relations of members, though of course we expect them to join us.” Lynette had never been to a funeral, but she knew what they were, and were pretty sure that they were more cheerful matters than this wedding. Her dad and Joyce wore sombre coloured every day clothes, though the former was wearing a long skirt, and there seemed to be nothing but warnings and condemnation. Except, curiously, right at the end, there was something the minister (a whey faced little man with a voice that reminded Lynette of paper being crinkled up, but paper with rocks and glass in it) called The Rejoicing . There had been no music in the service, and she had noticed that there wasn’t an organ, nor even a piano, but now everyone burst into some kind of wild, discordant song, something at the same time discordant and monotone, and that was the worst part of all. “Your suitcase is packed,” Joyce told her, “You are coming with us to our House of Mission, like we said.” “But I want to say goodbye to Gran-Jan!” “You will obey! And the sooner you are taken away from her malign influence, the better.” Though she had a good vocabulary, she wasn’t sure what malign meant, but it obviously wasn’t something good. You’re the malign one , she thought. She had been allowed a glass of orange squash after the wedding, though normally only water was allowed, and much later on, it dawned on her that it had been drugged. She drifted off into a deep, restless sleep in the back of the car, aware of turning round endless corners in a vague, stupefied way, time playing tricks on her. A whole night must have passed, because dawn was breaking when she woke up in a hard little bed. She was rousing of her own volition anyway, but another girl shook her awake. “Hurry! The first act of worship will soon be beginning.” “I’m hungry!” she exclaimed, and her stomach rumbled as if on cue. “You had best see if you can tame that!” A new recruit (which as she thought after, was hardly the right word as it implied something voluntary) at the House of Mission was given no leeway or time to slowly get accustomed to things. Later on she told Gran-Jan, “I suppose in one way it wasn’t like Lowood or those other schools you read about in books - the food wasn’t great, but there was enough - usually - and it wasn’t rotten or anything. But I didn’t have much appetite, even though I thought I was ravenous.” She had the sensation of being force-fed though, and not with nourishment. She learnt, in one single day, great chunks of what being a child at the House of Mission meant. There must be no singing, apart from The Rejoicing, and they didn’t call that singing. They were to read no books except the Bible in the Witnesses of the Dawn’s own version, and tracts of the kind that had replaced Harry Potter and even the Narnia books on Lynette’s bookshelves. Birthdays were forbidden. “That sounds like the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Gran-Jan said, “I wonder if they’re some kind of off-shoot.” “I don’t think so,” Lynette said. And in some ways they made the Jehovah’s Witnesses seem positively liberal. As Lynette understood it, JW families were allowed to keep pets, though there was some debate as to whether they had a soul. Such things were strictly forbidden for Witnesses of the Dawn. They were strict vegetarians, but it wasn’t because they loved animals. All animals except humans (and most of them) were evil and to be spurned. So Henny-Penny would have been ruled out on two counts! They did not play any games, and even an impromptu race up the corridor was immediately stopped and condemned as sinful. Naturally they didn’t go to school. They were required to be literate and numerate, but that was as far as it went, apart from a chosen few who went on to study the group’s own brand of theology. Now she was older, Lynette knew the phrase “Convert’s Zeal”, and her dad was a prime example of it. She told herself he must still love her, but it often didn’t feel as if he did. He had a weird look in his eyes - it was somehow empty and obsessive at the same time. But she was sure he MUST have his limits. One day she spoke of her mother - of her real mother. She rarely did, and was no hypocrite who pretended that she missed her when she had never known her, but now she thought about how different her life would have been if her mother had lived. Her dad had made sure she had seen plenty of pictures of her - a smiling young woman who looked so kind and full of love. She was pretty, too, and though Gran-Jan had always told her pretty was as pretty did, she couldn’t help being pleased about that. She wanted to think Joyce was ugly, but she wasn’t. She had even features and dark eyes that might have been nice if they hadn’t had that perpetual expression in them. The same expression as in her dad’s - except sometimes there was downright malice. “I don’t want to hear that talk ever again,” she told her. “The woman who bore you is now burning in hell.” Her Dad was going to say something. SURELY! But he didn’t. Not one word. And the thing was, she became one of the community. She went along with things. She never liked Joyce, but on the surface she stopped hating her, and blessed with a quick memory, she even became one of the best Bible students in her class, though there was some dichotomy here; they could hardly mind a child knowing her Bible, but being too clever for your own good was frowned on, especially as she was a girl, though they were in the process of reluctantly accepting some girls to theology classes. She did not have even the vaguest clue of where the House of Mission was. The Countryside could have been anywhere in the country. As the weather was generally relatively mild, she supposed it wasn’t in the far north of Scotland or anything like that, and she didn’t think it was near the sea. Not really near the sea. They were generally never allowed to leave the House, though some of the adults had to, on occasion, but as she knew, still, from fading memories of seaside holidays that faded though she didn’t want them to, in the quiet of the night you could hear the song of the tide, even if it were several miles away, and she didn’t hear it. Nor could she see the contours of any distant hills. When she was 11 she was accepted as a full member of the Witnesses of the Dawn. The ceremony was as joyless as the wedding, and even the Rejoicing didn’t last long, and she didn’t see it conferred any especial advantages on her but she didn’t mind either. She had stopped minding, or thought she had. That was also the occasion that she went through the rite of passage of being told what happened to a woman’s body around this time. It was biologically surprisingly frank and accurate, but the dire warnings about losing your purity were far more important. She was sweeping the hallway when a woman surged in through the open door - she had been sweeping out the dust. This woman, though quite conservatively dressed, was wearing what they called harlots’ clothing in bright colours. I know you thought Lynette, and yet she knew better than to take her eyes off the floor. I know you , the voice nagged at her again. And the woman stopped by her, and put her arm round her shoulders, and Lynette recoiled - public demonstrations of affection were forbidden at the House of Mission. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t you know me!” she exclaimed, “Don’t you know your Gran-Jan? I never gave up trying to find you, you know!” Well, there was a battle, of course. And Lynette’s dad wanted her to stay at the House of Mission. But Gran-Jan was a determined woman, and didn’t intend giving up now she’d got this far. Lynette wasn’t drugged when she drove her away from the House, but she supposed after that Gran-Jan may have wished she had been. She howled and howled, terrified at leaving the House even though she had never come to love it. When she reached Gran-Jan’s home (and how could a place be so familiar and so bizarre at the same time) her howling intensified as she saw a cat - a little tabby called Twinks, whom Gran-Jan had got for company. “That’s a creature of the devil!” she wailed accusingly. “No, she’s a dear little thing, but you don’t need to pay her any heed if you don’t want to.” That was all eight years ago now. Lynette had been to all kinds of counselling, but her best help was Gran-Jan, whose unwavering love and patience brought her back into the world. Oh, and Twinks! She was a dignified elder states-cat now, still with her gentle way and air of dignity, though she had never stopped loving her games with her catnip mouse. She was sitting on Lynette’s lap now, and was the first to hear her decision. “I will go and meet Dad,” she said, “Everyone tells me he is completely free of the House of Mission and the Witnesses of Dawn, and he’s divorced Joyce, but I still don’t quite trust him and don’t know if I want to. But I expect this means I’m properly grown up now.” It was agreed they would meet on neutral ground, at a local café at a quiet time, and Gran-Jan would be there, but discreetly in the background, only intervening if necessary, or if Lynette used an “alerting” phrase they had agreed on to signify that she wasn’t comfortable with the situation. Not that she was comfortable anyway. He has grown older, she thought, and it shows. She was still at the stage when she was growing up, but he was growing older. He had lost weight, and the first traces of grey were in his hair. He stood up as she approached. “It’s been - a very long time, dad,” she said, speaking first, and keeping her voice, though not hostile, neutral. “Too long,” he said, plainly fighting his tears. “Thank you for agreeing to this. I would have understood if you hadn’t, Linny-Pinny.” No, she wasn’t someone to be softened up by the use of a childhood nickname. It wasn’t that simple. But even before she realised it, she had thrown herself into his arms, and both of them were sobbing.


“Stay right there, Lindsay,” she said, moving strands of my wild red hair from of my face. “Yes, Mama.” I reassured her with a smile when she glanced back at me from the hot dog line. She didn’t like being apart from me, even if I was only a few feet away. It’s been just the two of us, inseparable, for as long as I can remember. Mama’s friends or family never came to visit, and she said my father died when I was very little. I don’t know much about him - Mama always gets tears in her eyes when I talk about him - but apparently he wouldn’t let go of me the last time I saw him. I guess that’s why Mama doesn’t like letting go either. This is the first time Mama has ever taken me to the carnival. Now that I’m here, I can see why my friends at school love it so much. The smell of deep fried foods, the bells and chimes of carnival games, and the twinkly lights made me feel like I was in a fairy land far away from here. Mama was slowly moving up the line, shuffling her feet and twirling her curly blonde hair between her fingers. I think she’s afraid of people; she gets very nervous in big crowds. I was startled when I noticed the clowns in the booth next to me, their heads moving side to side, staring blankly at the crowds. People were shoving ping pong balls in their mouths as fast as they could to win an absurdly large plush unicorn or panda. It reminded me of toy frog I cherished as a child, but lost many years ago. Its legs were frayed from being dragged along the ground all day. Across the walkway was another food stall. This one was bursting with every type of candy you could imagine. There were giant balls of cotton candy and every flavour of popcorn neatly displayed on a shelf behind the cashier. My mouth watered and I checked the hot dog line; Mama nearing the front. If I hurried, I could look at the candies and return to this spot before she noticed I was gone. Mama didn’t often say no to me, so I’m sure I could convince her to buy me something after dinner. Crossing the walkway proved harder than I first thought it would be. I jumped over puddles left from the afternoon’s rainstorm, and dodged strollers and young children who were not paying attention. I felt like a spy navigating a room full of lasers set to trigger an alarm if I dared touch them, and the candy stand was the treasure. My eyes narrowed on my target as I spun and pranced my way through the crowd, expertly dodging the invisible traps. That was too easy , I thought as the stall celebrated my arrival with some bouncy music. I looked at the products on display, searching for the perfect dessert. My eyes finally settled on an enormous blue and yellow lollipop at the back of the stand. The colours mingled and swirled in a never-ending circle. The entire lollipop was larger than my head! Mama was at the front of the hot dog stand now, ordering one with extra ketchup just the way I like it. I begun planning how to ask Mama for the lollipop as I turned to head back to my place next to the clown booth. But there was someone standing there, watching me. He was tall and lanky, wearing a blue and green striped polo shirt. He slowly rubbed his hands together as he eyed me from across the walkway. He must be the evil spy, I thought. I dashed behind a nearby garbage can to plan my next move. I had to be careful not to be caught by the evil spy. Who knew what plans he had with me? The mud under my feet was slippery and the hem of my dress wicked up the muddy water. With any luck, Mama won’t notice that. My eyes frantically searched my surroundings for an escape plan. The lights atop the ferris wheel twinkled against the black backdrop of the starless sky. That’s it! I can lose him on the ferris wheel. I scurried out from behind the garbage can and squeezed through the narrow alleyway leading to the next row of stalls. The carnival worker across from the alleyway was helping a young girl around my age select a rubber duck with a fishing pole. The bottom of the duck revealed NO PRIZE in bold letters. I made a note of the location on my spy map inside my brain so I could return with Mama later; I was sure the prize was hidden behind the duck with squinty eyes. But for now, my best chance of making it to the ferris wheel undetected was to blend in with the crowd. I slunk into the middle of the flow of traffic before I spun to check if the evil spy was behind me. He was easy to spot - his head bobbed over the top of the crowd. He quickly averted his eyes when I saw him, trying to hide that he’d been watching me. You’re going to have to do better than that! I picked up the pace, skipping to dodge the booby traps laced throughout the carnival. I jumped over a large puddle that I was sure hid a deep hole beneath its surface. If the evil spy caught me, he probably would have left me there for years until I died of starvation. I could practically feel the evil spy breathing on the back of my neck as I dove into a small building to the left. The dingy wooden cladding made the building look abandoned, but there were lights on inside and someone was just leaving with a giant ice cream cone. As I stepped inside, the noise from outside faded and I was left facing a cramped stage and several rows of plastic chairs. There was a man - no, a woman - on the stage balancing China plates on wobbly sticks. I slid into an empty seat in the middle of the crowd between two very large men. They each had their own buckets of buttery popcorn and I could barely hear the music over their chewing. The evil spy was sitting in the back row, watching me out of the corner of his eye, not daring to make a move in the crowd. My feet dangled from the chair as I settled to watch the woman spin the plates and balance on a unicycle that I hadn’t noticed before. The evil spy had me cornered here. I couldn’t see another exit, unless I risked a dash for backstage. If I got up to leave now, he could snatch me from his seat next to the door. My mind whirred as I tried to think of a new plan. Perhaps I could join the performer on stage for a better view or just run very fast past the man. It was too risky; I needed a distraction. The performer was losing the audience. The crowd was getting restless, no longer impressed with her balancing act. A burly man in the front row finally cracked and yelled out, “Get a real job!” The performer’s focus shattered along with her dozen China plates. Her face turned red as she scurried off-stage. I was embarrassed for her, but grateful for the distraction; it was exactly what I needed. If I was going to get out of this building alive, this was my chance. Down on all fours, I crawled under the seats amidst gasps from the audience. My knees were now as dirty as my dress. The evil man stood up to get a better view of the performer, taking his eyes off me. One final dash got me through the exit and I was among the noisy crowd outside once more. I melted against the shabby cladding of the wall to catch my breath. The audience slowly started leaving the theatre, clearly confused by what they had seen. The evil spy was surely right behind them. I had no idea where I was but the top of the ferris wheel was peaking out from behind the stalls to the left. My feet carried me as fast as they could toward the towering lights. My mind was so focused on getting to the ferris wheel that I didn’t notice the elderly woman up ahead. I crashed into her at full speed, knocking her sideways. “I’m so sorry,” I panted. She had that gentle aura about her like all grandmas do. Her cheeks were rosy and she smelled of dust bunnies. “Are you lost, dear?” she asked. “No, I’m not lost,” I said, “I just need to get to the ferris wheel before the evil spy catches me.” I don’t know why she chuckled at that. “Where is this evil spy, sweetheart?” I pointed to the tall man in the striped polo shirt headed towards us. “He’s been following me all night.” “Oh, I see...” Her voiced trailed off as she turned to tap her husband on the shoulder. The short stop had given the evil spy enough time to catch up; he was closing in. I broke away while the old woman’s back was turned, and raced towards the ferris wheel once again. It wasn’t long before I found myself in a large clearing at the base of the ferris wheel. There were people milling about and a man at the ticket booth yelled, “Grab your tickets here! Three turns on the ferris wheel! Grab your tickets!” A line quickly snaked its way out from the small booth. I ducked through the legs of a tall man in corduroy pants before blending into the crowd once again. I spun around, searching for the evil spy’s tall figure or striped polo shirt. I stood as tall as I could on the tips of my toes to get a better view. My heart raced as fast as my eyes darted around the crowd. “Yes!” I shouted to no one in particular. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. I had finally lost him. A smile painted my face as I danced with triumph. But my celebrations were short-lived as panic quickly overtook. I had no idea where I was. No idea where Mama was. Not even my mental spy map was telling me which way to go! “Mother?” I whispered. People seemed to move faster. I couldn’t keep track of the blur of faces. My palms were sweating. I sat in the mud, tears welling in my eyes. My dress was ruined. “Lindsay!” “Mama!” Her curly blonde hair practically glowed in the shadows in the alleyway she stood in. She proudly held up two hot dogs, far too big for either of us to finish. She smiled with relief but her eyes wear red and puffy from crying. I was about to be in a lot of trouble. I bent my head and shamefully made my way across the muddy clearing. I took no more than three steps when a hand reached out and grabbed my arm. Its grip was tight enough to stop me but soft enough to know it meant no harm. I looked up at the strange man who had been following me all night. He had a familiar smell, like a mix of freshly cut grass and campfire smoke. “Emily?” said the evil spy. My hand instinctively jerked away, my eyes fixated on his, and my feet cemented in place. “My name is L-Lindsay,” I stammered, trying to place this man who was now so familiar. My eyes found Mama’s across the crowd. She gasped as she saw the man and dropped our hot dogs into the mud. She turned to run, disappearing into the thick black night beyond the carnival. Did she just leave? “It’s okay, Em- Lindsay. I’m here. I’m your father,” said the man. My knees buckled as he spoke. “Father? No. My father died many years ago,” I replied. “Lindsay, you were taken from us when you were only three years old. Here,” he said, reaching for a faded leather wallet in his back pocket. He pulled out a small photo with jagged edges and crease marks from the many hands it had passed between. It was a photo of a family. The man had his arms around his wife, and a young child sat on his shoulders. A child no more than three years old. A child with my freckles on her nose. A child with my crazy red hair. A child holding my favourite toy frog that I thought I had lost many years ago.


*There were twelve of you to start with, comprising of three Schooners (Small two person Deep Dive submarines, armed with light torpedoes,) a Man O' War (A tank like vehicle for the deepest of missions, manned by a crew of four, armed to the teeth,) along with you and a buddy in a pair of Brigs (Single seat Mech suits, designed for Deep Sea escorts, great for close range combat and Deep Sea mining.)* *It was supposed to be a routine scouting mission, looking for a suitable spot to set up a base. You never would've dreamed that you'd find anything to use your armaments on anything, let alone a Monstrosity such as that.* *But at this point, you shouldn't be thinking what happened, but what you could do to get out of this situation. You we're lucky enough to escape it once, when your Brig was in good repair, but in this state, with the missing right arm and damaged life support system, you wouldn't have a chance. Unless...* *You open your diagnostics panel and check how much oxygen you have left, and find that you have about 2 hours left. It's not enough to get back to base, but you could easily make it to the surface with that much. Next, you lean forward and check the right arm for major damage, to which you sigh in relief. It's banged up and scratched, but nothing is mechanically wrong with it.* *Now, it's the waiting game. The Creature should circle back around like it's been doing for the past 20 minutes, and that will be your chance to both avenge your fallen friend and escape with a valuable Material, if the plan works, however.* *It appears on your sonar, getting closer, spanning the entire length of it while it passes over to the right of you, before slowly turning around to pass straight over you. As it passes over, with what little light you dare to use, you see the large underside of the beast almost graze the floor.* *You don't waste time and start running at it's face, usually a reckless idea, but you have a plan, and it includes you switching on your floodlights. The creature had turned towards you, and the brightness of the lights stun it for a few seconds, revealing it's enormous Eel-like head. You continue your assault by leaping at it, (not to effective at this depth, but effective enough,) and landing just to the right of it.* *As you were landing, you extended the diamond tipped Circular Saw (originally used for mining, and later used for combat,) to jab the side of its head, hitting the jawbone in a matter of seconds, and making the Eel writhe in pain. You take it one step farther by slashing it through the side of its mouth, buzzing the tips of some teeth out.* *As quickly as possible, you grab one of the tips and start running towards the nearest wall as the Eel regains it's senses, right before rushing at you with an unearthly screech. You do your best to get close to the wall before turning to fight, but your a tad late, and it plows its head into you, damaging some of the remaing systems, like the lights and diagnostics.* *it slams you into the wall and reels back to strike. You know this is it, your only weapon is probably done for, but you have to try, one last time. You slam the blade into the wall behind you and slam it into reverse, and you feel a force send you flying up the wall.* *You did it, you survived, and you got both the proof of the creature and the Material mentioned before. The blade worked, even after the crash, it worked. You would live to the surface, and then you would make it back to base, somehow. Your crew and your friend had lost their lives, but not in vain. You would keep their memory alive, and you would help avenge them in the end. It was only a matter of time...* Note: If you made it this far, thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, consider leaving an upvote, and if you find anything wrong with it, drop a comment below. All criticism is also appreciated, and thanks for reading! (Also, this was based off of a writing prompt from r/WritingPrompts, so credit to that sub.


Flyguy landed squarely on the sidewalk in front of Dave’s Midtown Bar & Grill. He smiled and held the door for an exiting patron then entered. Yacht rock filled the room signaling that ladies night was well underway. Flyguy waved off the dining hostess and made his way to the bar where Jamie, an ex-marine with extraordinary biceps and a dimpled chin was serving up drinks. There were no empty bar seats. Flyguy turned sideways and squeezed his otherworldly physique between two cute thirty-somethings - Gloria and Sheila, who were watching Jamie perform “The Bar Rag Trick.” They giggled as the rag stiffened and curved upward, magically elevating itself above the drink rail. Jamie looked up with a big smile to find himself nose to nose with Flyguy. Flyguy, Jamie said, and released his grip on the rag causing it to slowly go limp. The ladies let out a sad sigh and giggled as Jamie looked at them and shrugged his shoulders. ”What’ll you have?” Jamie asked Flyguy. “Martini on the rocks, shaken - not stirred,” Flyguy said. Jamie gave Gloria a look - as if to say - I'll be right back after I get rid of this schmuck. Jamie left and Flyguy moved in. “Good Evening ladies,” Flyguy said to Gloria and Sheila. They gave him an awkward smirk and turned their attention to the television above the bar. Undeterred, Flyguy stretched his long arms above his head flexing his muscular guns into a tight pose. “I just got back from a long trip, and boy, are my arms tired!” Flyguy said, holding his pose for effect, then, slowly he lowered his arms along the ladies backside - letting out a short guffaw as his hands made purchase along their lower waist and side. Drink shot from Sheila's mouth as his as his fingers tighten against her ribs. She let out a small snort. Flyguy smiled and thought to himself, "that never gets old." “Consider yourself safe tonight, ladies,” he said. “You’re with me! What could possibly go wrong?” He smiled, pulled them in tight against his waist and delivered the finale of his three part pick up routine. “What do you say I buy you ladies a drink?” And gave them both a million dollar smile. Gloria, to his left, gave him a slow down-up look over - meeting his steel blue eyes a full foot above her own. Then, in her most sensuous voice said, “Where do you keep your wallet - Mr. Flyguy?” Giving him a big smile, she slapped her right hand down between his legs. Flyguy shot up on his toes like a rocket. The girls chuckled and reached in front of him for a high five. He tried to speak, but Gloria had already pushed herself backward, dislodging his arm from her waist and giggling as she left the bar. Undeterred, Flyguy turned to Sheila on his right and gave her his best smolder. His head dipped slightly traveling left to right while his eyebrows moved like rollercoasters across his head. His mouth formed a slow-subtle smile which he held for effect. Sheila gave a disgusted grunt and said “whatever!” Then, like a villain with an escape plan, rolled in circular motion out of Flyguy's grip. As she walked away, she spun around and shot little gun fingers at him. “Okay, I see how it is,” said Flyguy with a forced smile. “I'll remember this next time I find you in a falling elevator or out of control train!” Sheila shot him a smile and met up with Gloria a few steps away. They leaned into each other and giggled as they headed towards an open booth across the room. “Nice touch,” said Jamie, as he returned with Flyguy’s martini. “Thanks," said Flyguy, and lifted the drink from Jamie’s hand before he could set it down. He gave it a dainty sniff. Then, with his right pinky fully extended, took a delicate sip. Jamie watched intently as he repeated this routine several times. Jamie interjected. “I saw you on the 6 o'clock last night.” Jamie paused as Flyguy sniffed and then sipped of his drink. Then on cue, Jamie said, “Good work saving that treed cat on Lexington, I see my tax dollars are hard at work.” Flyguy gave a little choke and a stream of martini flew from his mouth back into his glass. He thought to himself, "I can’t even enjoy a drink without some cutesy bartender making a joke at my expense." Flyguy looked up from his drink and said, “Ha, ha, ha - everyone's a comedian,” and pushed his drink across the bar towards Jamie. “Maybe I should take my business somewhere else!” Jamie apologized, then left to serve another customer, saying under his breath as he went - “You'd think a guy who runs around in tights and a cape would have a better sense of humor.” “You would think,” Flyguy shouted down the bar at Jamie. “I don’t just have x-ray vision, you know; I can hear everyone in this room.” Jamie took the gals cash, dropped a drink in front of her and beat it back down the bar where Flyguy sat. He gave Flyguy his best sympathetic bartender face and said, “so you had a bad day, big deal. Everyone has a bad day once in a while. Why should you be any different?” The tension released in Flyguy’s shoulders and he let his body relax into his seat. Then with a very un-Flyguy like vulnerability in his voice said, “it hasn’t just been a bad day, Jamie, it's been a bad month!” He paused for a moment, gathered his thoughts, then went on. “Ever since the mayor worked out his 'Power Sharing Peace Agreement' between supervillains and superheroes, I’ve found myself out of work.” Jamie lifted a glass and towel and dried it as Flyguy vented. “And to top it off, Doomsday just bought himself a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. Which, I might add, he is paying for with the forward on his new book, Chillin with the Villains . Then there's his little Netflix series, nearing the end of its second season - Villains vs Superheroes; The Murders; The Mysteries; The Series. Flyguy let out a sigh so heavy it sounded like a death rattle. Jamie took a quick step back. Flyguy reached for his martini and slammed it back - pushing down the boulder size rock stuck in his craw. Then, defeated, dropped the glass and his head on the bar and lay there. Jamie reached a hand over the bar and timidly patted Flyguy on the shoulder. “Let me get you another drink, big guy,” and left him face down on the bar. After a moment, Flyguy lifted his head slightly and said, “You know Jamie, my agent says I should consider retirement.” Jamie returned working the Boston shaker in one hand. He smiled and said, “sunny days at the beach... supermodels in the sand.” Then with his free hand, Jamie launched into his drink performance. He flipped a fresh cocktail glass from the rack above the bar catching it mid air between his fingers before it touched ground. He gave the shaker a crack against the edge of the bar, letting the top drop into the sink below. Then, without missing a beat, poured the drink, dropped the shaker and slid the martini glass across the bar with his right hand as he dropped an olive in it with his left. Flyguy gave a short chuckle, pointed his finger at Jamie and smiled. "Supermodels, Ha! I like what you did there!” Flyguy put out his right hand for the high five - and slap! Jamie pulled his back, wincing at the pain forming in his wrist. “We should never do that again,” he said, and Flyguy gave him another smile. “Maybe your agent is right,” Jamie said, as he rubbed his wrist. Flyguy pushed himself upright in his seat. “You mean the guy who insisted that I would become a household name if I wore this costume to work? Yeah - like he really knows what he's talking about. Now I'm stuck with this thing. Sure, it looks great from the sky, but I'm just out of place when I'm on down time.” Jamie had another customer, but shouted back at Flyguy as he crossed the bar to take her order, saying, “ever think of keeping a change of clothes somewhere?” Two martinis deep and Flyguy was beginning to feel his inhibitions fade away. He stood, leaned a bit over the bar and yelled back, “where do you think I should keep it - behind the bar? Or maybe in the bathroom, even better, how about in a phone booth. I certainly don't have room in my back pocket,” and dropped himself back into his seat. “Point Taken,” Jamie said, as he mixed up a mojito for a lady a few seats down; a redhead with peach skin and a southern accent. When Jamie didn’t show signs of returning Flyguy finished his drink and excused himself to the restroom. “Another drink?” Jamie shouted over the bar to Flyguy as he slipped away. “Yeah, sure, why not,” said Flyguy. “Make it a martini on the rocks.” Jamie smiled and finished his sentence for him. Flyguy gave him a side arm wave and crossed the dining area toward the bathrooms grumbling under his breath about having to take off the entire suit just to take a wiz. The front door opened and in strode Fledermaus. He surveyed the clientele. He knew his presence was unwelcome, but "mission first", he thought. Not seeing Flyguy, he figured he might check a few more bars before he gave up. Then he saw Linda. A 34 year old divorcee with long dark hair and pale complexion. She sat alone facing the door, an empty seat opposite her. She held a piña colada in one hand and hardback of Dr. Zhivag o with a short stem rose laying across the page in the other. Fledermaus thought to himself, "classic blind date giveaway." He cleared his throat and crossed to her table. “Hello there gorgeous,” he said, gently sliding the book from her hand. He closed it on the rose and dropped it on the table. Linda looked up at the eyes behind the mask as Fledermaus spoke. “I bet you’ve never seen a tool belt like this before,” and gave a little prance to show off his waist. Linda, un-phased, watched for a moment, then picked up her book and reopened it. “Keep walking Fledermaus,” she said, gently pulling at a thorn which had pierced her page. "I don’t want to be seen with you after that stunt you pulled yesterday. Channel 25 played it at six and eleven. Why don’t you go back to your cave - you animal!” Fledermaus slid into the empty seat across from her. “It wasn't my fault," he pleaded. "That little joker called me some pretty hurtful names. I mean, here I am trying to capture ‘Two Face’ for the umpteenth time, and this comedian is cracking stupid bat jokes like - there were these two bats in a cave and one said to the other...,” Fledermaus produced a few high pitch squeaking sounds to finish the joke. He let out a groan and reached for Linda’s piña colada. Linda was quicker and gave the back of his hand a good slap. Fledermaus withdrew it and continued his thought. “The kid threw me off my game and ‘Two Face’ gave me the slip.” Linda wasn’t buying Fledermaus’ personal pity party. She leaned over the table and put her fists in front of her eyes and said, “Oh, boohoo, Fledermaus. He was ten years old and you hit him with your Mausarang. I hope he sues!" Then she jerked her book up in front of her face and pretended he wasn’t there. Fledermaus' attention was suddenly diverted when he caught the sight of Flyguy returning from the bathroom struggling to get his cape to set right. Tightening his teeth, the gravel in his throat ground as he spoke. “Flyguy!” Flyguy felt a sudden darkness permeate the atmosphere of the room. He stopped and gave his cape a final flick. As if under a spell, it floated up behind him, straightened itself, then settled down along his back. Flyguy expected to find Fledermaus swinging from a ceiling rafter or perhaps above a wall sconce over a booth; not crossing the dining area towards the waiters station where he now stood. Seeing Fledermaus in Metropolis caused Flyguy's blood pressure and body to slowly elevate above the floor. Flyguy spoke first as Fledermaus approached. “We agreed after the 'bridge incident,” he said, giving finger quotes to emphasize his point, “that you would stay in your city and I would stay in mine.” “You agreed,” replied Fledermaus. “I just nodded my head until you shut up.” Infuriated, Flyguy's voice raged. “I was doing just fine talking that guy down, until you decided to use your grappling hook on him.” “At least I was trying to save him - you were just boring him to death! Besides, the body never turned up. ‘No harm no foul, I say!’” Fledermaus added his own finger quotes for effect. Then he reached up, grabbed Flyguy by the cape and yanked him down. “Hey”, barked Flyguy. “Don’t EVER tug on Flyguy's cape!” Cape peeled itself from Fledermaus’ grip, drew itself back and released a whip snap which exploded square in the middle of Fledermaus’ chest armor. Fledermaus stumbled backwards and re-established his balance. There had never been any love loss between the two supers and Fledermaus’ attempt to patch things up wasn't exactly going to plan. Flyguy didn’t know it yet, but trouble was brewing in the villain world and Fledermaus needed to convince Flyguy to form an alliance. Fledermaus took a deep breath and spoke in a more conciliatory tone. “Listen, Flyguy,” he said. “I’m sorry about the cape. I didn’t come here to start a fight." Fledermaus went on to explain that he occasionally bought certain antiquities from an old Greek trader to dress out his bat cave. And that recently he had learned of his dealers connections to the Greek Mafia. Flyguy had heard enough. At the words “Greek Mafia”, he held his hand up, excused himself and turned to leave. Fledermaus quickly cut him off at the dining entrance, knocking a server's tray as he headed to the dish room. Dirty plates and silverware clanged and broke against the tile floor. A light applause drifted in from the dining area. Flyguy said. “I don’t see my motivation to help you with your problem,” and told him to go back to his cave and leave superhero work to those with higher moral integrity. Then threatened to make a call to a friend down at the precinct and let him know about Fledermaus' mafia connections. “You wouldn't dare,” said Fledermaus. “Hey,” said Flyguy. “What's the difference between a cave and a jail cell? They're both small, dimly lit, and crawling with vermin. As far as I'm concerned you'll be right at home. At least you'll be out of my life.” Fledermaus pulled a small box from his tool belt and said, "I'm not going to jail. I'm the good guy! I came here to ask a fellow super for a little help catching some crooks. Sounds like a no-brainer right. Well I'm done being Mr. Nice Guy." Fledermaus opened the box. A warm green glow quickly surrounded them. Flyguy could feel his strength leaving him as the radioactive light source enveloped his body. He managed to say, “Jadarite! How?” then dropped his head and fell to one knee. Fledermaus closed the box and Flyguy began to recover. Fledermaus explained that a lithium mine operation in Serbia with connections to the Greek Mafia had dug up a whole vein of the stuff and were, at this moment, shipping it all here to metropolis. And that by chance, his antiquities dealer had learned of it and alerted him to the plot. “It's not real Jadarite,” said Fledermaus, but it's close enough to do the job. “What Job?” Asked Flyguy. Fledermaus leaned into Flyguy and in a low graveled voice whispered - “To catch a super!” Flyguy raised his head and pointed his gloved finger at himself. Fledermaus nodded. Flyguy seemed to be regaining the color in his face, but his eyes were now glowing embers. Doomsday, he said, and went into a motionless trance. Fledermaus noted his sudden abatement from their conversation and raised his hand, snapping his gloved fingers to get his attention. “Hey, what's going on in there Flyguy?” Said Fledermaus. Flyguy's mind returned. “I was just thinking of something I saw on T.V.,” he said, and explained that the second season finale of Doomsday’s Villains vs Hero's was due to start filming and that Doomsday was promising a real cliff hanger. “No doubt they are planning to paint me as the villain, turn the city against me, and run me off the planet,” Flyguy said. “And with you out of the way,” said Fledermaus, “they can take over the city.” A sudden feeling of danger and excitement began to well up in Flyguy. Something he felt had been missing for a while. “Come on Fledermaus!” Flyguy shouted. “We’ve got a city to save!” There was a sudden crack of thunder followed by a bright light and when the patrons regained their senses neither Flyguy nor Fledermaus were anywhere to be found. THE END


'Due to unfortunate circumstances, a temporary leave of absence is requested so that she can rehabilitate herself.' Well, professionally speaking yeah. But in actuality, I yelled at my team members and threatened to manically laugh while I burn their instruments to ash. It's been about a 2 months leave and I couldn't be sadder to know that my free time was coming to an end once more. But, Let me start from the beginning. I'm a musician for a Food and Entertainment place. You know the kind. Where it's like a concert with different acts, but you get to sit down and admission is free. You see, for years, FOR YEARS, these people, my co-workers, have been pissing me off. I stood and I took it, all of their comments and 'constructive' criticism with a smile on my face. It was about time I'd crack. 'Why didn't I leave?' I hear you asking. It's a family restaurant. Enough said. Family and Business. WOrst COMBINATION EVER. It's like this, my dad is the manager, my mom is head chef and my brother handles the concert stuff. I just fall in with my dad's friends who are musicians also. There's two singers who constantly try to take the spotlight away from eachother, lead guitarist, bass guitarist, and drummer. That's all you need in a band. I'm just here. A pianist. Who doesn't even want to play piano in the first place, but whatever. Here's where things started getting bad. I had just gotten into yet another music school. (I'm was 14 or so by the way, so I can't really oppose to any of this.) And in this Music school, I got bullied. Or did I? I never thought of it as bullying because the person never physically harmed me. By the way, the bully was the teacher himself. He would say things like 'You're wasting your parent's money' and 'It's not that hard just use your brain.' Demeaning but not bad enough to run to mommy and daddy saying 'The teacher was mean to me.' Not like they'd do anything about it, cause I stayed there for a few years, secretly beginning to really despise my life. Ok it wasn't a secret. I'd told them multiple times about that man and they did not hear me. I'm sure they didn't miss the crying session I had in the car everyday after classes too. Background Explained. Now to the part where I lose my marbles, my 'job' and my freedom. No Regrets though. I had just finished a horrible (as usual) class. In order to get to my room, I have to walk through the business area of the house to get to the upstairs. So I was walking through the cafe, and there my group was practicing on stage. Usually we don't have a practice session at this time, I get about a 3 or 4 hours to cool out. One of the singers saw me, and decided to get my attention by calling my name on the microphone. "What?" I respond. "You're supposed to be here. Now? What are you doing?" She continues with her irritating voice. Inhaling a breath of air, I look at her, "I just had a class." "Well hurry up and change, we need you on stage." "Why didn't you tell me? We don't have practice 5:00pm on a Wednesday." "We talked to your dad." Ah. There it is. I was volunteered yet again. "You have my number. I'm the only person in this house that actually answers their phone anyway." "Look- We don't have time for this" The bass player cuts in. "And you think I Have time?." "What do you do all day? I didn't know you had a job." "Yeash cause going to school for 8 hours, then lessons right after for 2 hours, not to mention not getting paid is so fun," I retort. "Get up here or I'm going to tell your father," the lead starts. "Okay then." I begin to walk away when I overhear something on the microphone which makes me stop in my tracks. "Hold up. What did you say lady?" With a clearer voice, the other singer says, "You're very rude for a young little girl." "You better take that back before I make you swallow that microphone." I point at her. "Just, go Cool off and come back when you have a better attitude." I look around the room, it's empty. So it she must be talking like that to me. I put my hand on my chest in the most dramatic fashion, "You're telling me about mY attitude when your husband can't stop complaining about yours?" "Little girl." the drummer pitches in (I don't know who invited him into this conversation but there he is.), "You have to watch your mouth." Burning with anger, I storm up to the stage because what I'm about to say I need them to hear clearly, "Guess what. Since my dad owns this club, You're all FIRED." The lead steps in with, "You can't do that." "Don't tell me what I can and can't do." I see the microphone, half about to cry I continue, "YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA WHat's Happening in my life. So GO ahead and laugh at my pain. My family bought all this gear for you. I'm just about burn down this whole place. TRy ME." "Maybe you should calm down." The bass player states. "Can you... Not be stupid for once in your life? It'll be much appreciated." I push the microphone stand off the stage, causing feedback to ring through the monitors giving off a slight screeching noise. Then someone said something that I can't quite remember cause I blacked out in rage and tried to strangle him/her. Then I woke up in my room, and things were different. My family was scared of me, for some reason. I can't imagine what. And that's how they introduced me to my new therapist instead of music classes. Which was great. Now I'm easing back into my old life again. Since my two months were over, the band decided to hold a practice session that I wasn't banned to attend. They were scared of me as well. Which was great... for a while until they started to revert to old habits in a few weeks time. "I can't hear you," one of the singers stops the entire song to address me. "Yeah, I can't play too loud right now. It's hurting my ear-" I was about to tell her I had a pimple in my ear when they started. "What's wrong with her?" the bass player asks. "She's afraid that the keyboard is gonna hurt her." She replies. Here we go again.


Pluck a yellow leaf. It works better on a summer's day and has a higher chance of you surviving. Dip in blue paint and draw black widow hourglass. Fill the hourglass in. Extra points if you don't actually summon a spider (Like one of our clients). This part has lots of chance. The whole warding thing has a lot of chance, luck...and un-luck. This section of the book was reread and correct. She kept reading. It would be new content. It's easier if you read below: Note that you are at risk of gray magic. Ahkem Rammrphann! Dimeephareehe Fakk!" The pan (Little forest creatures, they are) found herself rising into the sky. It was a horse-ghoul flying. She looked deep into its eyes: nothing. Tittine looked even deeper. At first she only heard a few empty, hollow dry laughs, but then, there was talking in the black void that Tittine had sensed. "Ah, I know your kind can read animals. They have taken decency quite a few times. Are yours not like them?" It said. "Do not deny: You will further prove my point. Pan do not trust ghouls." "True. I do not." Tittine replied. "I am a ghoul made from a bloody horse head, and I am very pleased if I can swallow you." The ghoul replied. “That feels like you're trying to dodge rhyming.” “Ghouls of evil spirits, you say? Just one more reason why I want to swallow you dead, is it? Besides, that was an accident.” They sped on air like it was a track. Long blue snakes circled the hills with an occasional grey dot of a boulder. It frightened Tittine to look down longer, so she closed her eyes. The horse-ghoul was supposed to be an animated thing like a horse, but there were clearly some things even the realm of the dead couldn’t achieve. The horse was transparent. " Ghouls do not trust pan. They do not trust anyone else either. Ghouls are the dead." "True. Everything could also be programmed with some dark magic, and all of this could be an illusion." “We will most likely be discussing how likely it will happen.” “Hmm. Well. "We are merely some physical supernatural-like imitations. Enjoy yourself. Nothing will make any difference." She quoted. "One that has not seen the horrors of life may think this is some clown jabberwocky, but I understand. Your philosophy is quite dark.” The ghoul-horse said. “Farewell.” Tittine said. She slid off the ghoul. There was some kind of wall between them that stopped her from falling into the horse-ghoul’s insides. The ghoul nodded, then sped off with a flash. “Tit?” Tittine asked. A tiny brown owl popped out of the pewter pot on her shoulder. The pot had an absurdly long handle. “We’re going spider hunting.” Tittine whispered. Shall we say, spirit hunting. Anything is a spirit, in fact. There are many types of Blood rushed through her veins much faster, and something screamed inside her. Tittine began running without a purpose, wandering, feet kicking up dust. Her soul guided Tittine, and Tit screamed beside her, a hearty kind of scream. Everything was a blur beside her. A long scream again. A short yell. Long scream. Long yell. Short scream. Jumping over a boulder crossing, Tittine was supercharged. Suddenly, she stopped channeling nature energy, grew silent. Spider. Its furry legs greedily advanced, its fangs bared out, hissing. Black spider, orange striped. Worst of all, it was all at her. Tittine took out a glassblowing trumpet-like thing, only that the blowing part was closed. Pan glassblowers could work great wonders. She paused for a second. Too late. Tittine was in dart’s range. Before the spider could respond, Tittine smashed the trumpet-like glass thing over it. The trumpet-like exploded, shattering with a high-pitched sound. That seemed to destroy half of the spider’s legs. The pan scaled the boulder frantically, but the spider kept advancing. The legs seemed to switch, and there were two legs on each side. It stumbled angrily, legs not keeping up with the body. The spider bulged its eight eyes out. Is this the supernatural kind? Tittine shouted. That destroyed half of the spider’s leg. She shouted again, but not as an attack: “Tit!” No reply. The tiny brown owl was gone. Then Tittine realized it had flown somewhere else. The spider regrew all of its legs. One leg nearly pinned her. It feeds on despair. However, I imagine it, it becomes. I have to use that. Slowly, the spider began to change. Stripes disappearing, fangs shortening, pale skin, lessening of eyes and legs. It became a baby. Tittine poked her two times before it started to change into a spider. She had made a mark. The baby wouldn’t change into a spider anytime soon, and quite literally. “You’re Ulti.” She whispered. “The spirit shapeshifter.” It was abruptly interrupted by a clattering of hooves, and the baby started to cry. The pan rubbed her nose, and the baby started laughing. “Ghoul-horse,” She looked up and said, “You are here again?” The ghoul quietly nodded. “But...we can’t just leave Tit here!” Tittine stuttered. “The owl will fly home to where you live. I wonder...do you have an animal bondage?” The ghoul-horse asked. “Yes.” Tittine said. “I am Wasnaf. Call me whenever you need to.” The ghoul said. “Wait!” “For what, hmmm?” The horse-ghoul smiled. Only a half of his ethereal body you were able to see. “Well, I need to go home.” “Thought you magical forest people could enlarge a bird with a spell.” Tittine stopped the urge to tell him that magic wasn’t easy. “Well, we just left Tit.” “All right, suppose he’s sitting at the Mushroom thinking we’re neglectful and slow for not finding him yet. You need me, right?” She climbed up on the ghoul, taking Ulti the baby. “Well, if that’s the case and he’s thinking I’m neglectful, I’ll be having a whole new problem to deal with.” Soon, Wasnef left Tittine and Ulti at the Mushroom. No sign of anyone. Silence. Just when she began to think Tit was truly gone, the little bird hopped up...and into the pot. It peeked out, looking at Ulti. Tittine laughed. One day, I’m going to see Wasnef. And I’ll be taking Tit with me. Perhaps with Ulti.