Have you ever had a stare down with the grim reaper, on the brink of death not once, but twice, Crenshaw couldn't believe he'd doubled back and let karma bite him in the ass not two but three times. He was sure he had his eyes on the prize, until he found himself lying on the coach both in physical and emotional pain due to Silence. She was long gone, it was 16 weeks and two days since his last intimate encounter with her and there was still no sign of her coming back.. No phone calls, no text messages, no appearances. He didn’t want to believe she was laid up with someone else and he had not received even a phone call or sign from his beloved twin ray counterpart. How could she not be there for him during this time. Projecting blame onto her for not being present, made him subject to his own guilt and insecurities backfiring on him, causing him to reflect on how he had been treating her the past two years. Not picking up the phone, texting back, lying, partying, blowing money, with other women, refusing to go on dates, or treat her right, just f****** up because of he didn’t want to acknowledge she was pregnant by him or even show concern regarding the fact he was on the verge of losing the one and only person who truly ever cared for or loved him for who he was and not for what he had or could do. A tear formed in his eyes and one rolled down his right cheek. How foolish had he been to not admit how he really felt about her deep down inside, even more cowardly he ran away from the passion he'd ignited and the wall he'd built between them due to his own insecurity, jealousy, and fear surrounding what love should and shouldn't be, is or wasn’t, could, should or would be, instead of just chilling and going with the flow as he had once asked her to do, To be him, and her who she was and allowed herself to be was too much for him. He knew he didn’t want to admit to himself or anyone else what they had done or were about to do. He was in love like never before, he knew for sure their love would be able to stand the test of time. But was that reason sufficient enough for him to keep testing her limits by keeping secrets? Sending her through unavoidable pain and mishaps left him and her wounded in the end, which only made him feel even more defeated afterwards. After lying there for hours, and allowing himself to daydream, days went by, and he wanted to know more about the future, fantasizIng about her love and how he remembered having his way with her made him want to call her up for a tarot reading. He wanted nothing more than to be in her presence, in her arms, in her home, and deep in her womb. Life didn’t seem fair. His love didn’t seem real and he knew when she pondered on things for way too long she had the opportunity to really get to know herself, him as the man she thought she needed to let go of, and the reality of the circumstances they had found themselves in. Though he had fallen in love with her, she was on the verge of marrying someone else if he didn’t speak up soon. In the beginning, in the back of his mind, he knew she could and would bring so much happiness, peace, love, light, and healing into his world, yet he wasn’t ready to change or embrace her. Now that she didn’t think it mattered anymore, he didn’t want to lose someone he had fought so hard to attract and keep. He didn’t want it to be over. The pain he felt within him was nothing compared to the pain he knew she felt after being exposed to all of his lies, trickery, deception, manipulation tactics, defeat, and secrets. In 10 months she had came into his life and shaken him to his core, so much had changed, and suddenly he felt even she knew things would never be the same. Time was expiring. Had he not initiated the process of letting her go; God wouldn’t have brought her back from the dead. Twenty One (CXXI) Capricorn World Can you be useful and grab the toys? What's the point of you being here if you're not going to help?” I dropped the box of toys on the countertop and stopped to take a quick breath. “Damn that box was heavy,” I used the back of my hand to wipe a little bit of sweat off my forehead. Silence picked up the rubber duck and playfully waved it in her hand before throwing it back in the box. “Y’all should’ve paid somebody else to do this for y’all. Where Raf ass at? I’m not even supposed to be lifting heavy stuff knowing I’m pregnant!” I tried my best not to laugh. “How about I take a cut of your money and use that to employ someone else," I teased her by throwing a rainbow colored dildo the size of a horse’s penis at her. She almost jumped out of her skin. “Geesh,” She dropped the toy, obviously creeped out by it, “what can a woman do with something that size anyway. If a man has a wand that size, he isn't human!!!!” she shrilled. “You're right, which is why it belongs to a horse,” I replied jokingly before picking up the dildo and putting it back in the pile of other sex toys. I loved my friend to death, but being an Aries, she could act like a spoiled brat sometimes. She wasn't the blame entirely, I played a part too. She could be clumsy, even a little messy and uneasy sometimes but she didn't deserve the treatment people had given her over the years. I didn’t know the day I met her, she would become one of my best friends.. Only God knows the truth of it all. “Yoo...” Raf walked into the boutique nd interrupted me before I could finish my sentence. “I’ll meet you on the corner of MLK, drop you off at the spot, then ditch the car. Got it?. I smacked my teeth listening to him on the phone. He rolled his eyes, “not this again.” “Excuse me?” shocked at his demeanor. "Be careful,” he apologized. “You chose this life. This life didn’t choose you, and I dang sure didn’t choose it for you. You knew the consequences behind it. Hell, you brought me into it, I’m just doing my job and healing too, right now my job is to protect you at all costs,” he kissed my forehead before moving to the side. He caused me to smile, but grimace at his words; the choices we made choose this life, but I couldn't believe he was trying to call me out. “I know you don't call yourself reading me,” I nudged his arm with my arm. “Nah thug, I'm just saying,” he shrugged, “It's something I'll do again if that means protecting you and my roots. Anything for the family right.” I could understand that, as a family that's what we stood on, so I nodded my head at him. He knew what was understood didn't have to be explained. For the most part, as a whole, we were solid. A bond formed between two people and God that couldn't be broken. Five years after our friend’s death, we moved to Augusta, GA in hopes of us “starting over". From there, we opened up to a whole different world, a new world, one we’d created astrally. Being introduced to what was previously known as “The New Age World”, was the best thing for me. It potentially changed my life, all of our lives, including my family and social circle. I hate we had originally been sent on a dummy mission to destroy the earth and the world. My perfect husband believed his time was up, and was becoming a liability. Underground Atlanta was supposed to be used as a means of survival in the beginning, never would I have thought I would be where I am today. The highest paid, most influential, successful black woman in Atlanta, GA. Being the owner of several private night clubs in the US, a sexy lingerie clothing line, that included a sex toy collection; I made a name for myself last year when I signed a contract to expand Underground Atlanta across the boarder. I had less than 2 months before I opened the new and improved Underground Atlanta, although the name would change to Love Underground in honor of Love. I felt like the name was more fitting, especially with all the activity that transpired within the clubs, the best way to pay my respects to my dear husband. Lord bring peace to his soul. After my first spiritual awakening, I decided to use his last name after we got married and change my first and middle name to my heavenly name, once I changed my last name to Tutt, that’s what I identified by, burying the person I was before. I was so glad to finally be my own person and get out from under the shadow of the notorious one. I was beautiful, fierce, rich, and powerful with unlimited resources. I simply took a risk. A risk that has been fulfilling its purpose as intended for what today marks the fourth year. I was extremely proud of myself. For not only deviating a precise strategy and building a magnificent team, but also doing it completely under the radar four consecutive years. I was shocked at how successful we were able to execute everything. Five years ago, I would have never thought I would be here, right now, preparing to finish Co-Operation. “Silence,” He snapped me from my thoughts, “you okay? Can we talk please?” I folded my arms and nodded my head, “yeah, I’m okay. Thanks, by the way.” “For?” he raised his eyebrow with a blank expression on his face. “For saving me,” I responded with much gratitude, “don’t think I ever told you how grateful I am.” It was true, I was very grateful. While I made a call to the alarm company to inform them of the false alarm, I thought about what we needed to do next. God knows we didn't need the cops snooping around our warehouse. It would blow the entire operation, so after that incident we decided to change to a more isolated location and add more security. “Told you,” he pounded his hand against his chest, “it’s my job.” I’ll see you later” He threw up the peace sign and walked out of Sepaga. “See you later,” I repeated back to him before he walked out of Sepaga`, the lingerie and sex store I, well we, owned.. He hopped in the 2022 Burgundy Red and Black Toyota 4Runner I bought him for his birthday with his brothers then sped off. “God keep them safe and everything according to plan,” was the silent prayer I sent above as I began restocking the store, hanging the lingerie pieces on the mannequin. Thirty minutes passed by, and my stomach began to rumble. It was definitely time for a lunch break. I checked the time; it was a quarter past two and decided to take a break and head across the street to the new restaurant Agape's Food And Drink that we’d opened almost a month ago. I had been hearing a few people that came through the store and club talk about it, so I thought why not try it out. I could smell it from across the street, whenever I came outside the store, and it smelled delicious; from the Facebook pictures I'd seen, if it tasted anything like how it looked and smelled, I couldn't wait to get ahold of the new menu. I grabbed my keys to lock up the store, my phone and my purse. I walked out of the store, making sure to lock it behind me, before crossing the street and walking into Agape's. Twenty Two (CXXII) Sagittarius Fool “Hi, welcome to Agape's Food And Drink, will it be to-go or can I get you a table for 1?” The host greeted me as soon as I walked through the door with a pleasant and friendly tone. I was amazed; it was beautiful inside. A one stop shop for all your food, drink, and sweet tooth needs. It was buffet style with endless selections. I couldn't wait to try the food. “You know what,” I thought about if I wanted to eat in or take it to go, “I'll just take a seat at the bar,” making eye contact before looking over at the bar. “Great,” the host replied in a happy tone, “please follow me,” she instructed me before leading the way. “The buffet has a variety of choices. Drink menus are at the bar, and the desserts are to your far right. If the buffet has too many options for you, and you only want something simple, here's a basic menu for you.” She handed me the tri fold menu. “I particularly like the chicken tuna salad with fresh fruit and the buffalo chicken dip with the restaurant chips. It is being offered at a discounted price this week as the owner is choosing to discontinue it, so if I was you I would definitely try it while supplies last. Your bartender and server tonight will be Kloe`. If you need anything please refer to her.” She flashed me a smile. ”I hope you enjoy your meal today, let me know if you need anything,” was the last thing she said to me before walking back to her station. “Screwdriver extra shot of orange juice,” the bartender Kloe slid a drink across the bar top to a beautiful woman. Her thick, sandy brown, curly hair was pulled back into a high bun; she had hazel green eyes and wore hoop earrings with a halter black dress. The tattoo above her right shoulder was of a rose with the phrase “For those I love I will sacrifice” written under it, instantly sticking out to me. She looked far from feminine although that’s the manner in which she presented herself. I had only been with one female since my transition, and that was my first night attending Love Underground, but something about her beauty had me memorized and for some reason, I felt like I had to have her. I walked up and sat two seats down from her, “Screwdriver extra shot of orange juice,” I smiled at Khloe` before pretending to read the menu. “Coming right up,” Kloe` responded eagerly. “What do you know about a screwdriver with an extra shot of orange juice?” the sweet innocent voice coming from the left of me made me look up from my menu. “Well, I'm not much of a drinker,” I lied, knowing I could dang well hold my liquor, “however, I like vodka and love orange juice, so I figured I couldn't go wrong with such a basic drink.” I smiled flirtatiously. The lips the innocent voice came from curled up into a smile, and she parted her lips to speak, “Hey I’m Corinthian, and you are?”, I leaned over and extended her hand to me. “Nice to meet you Corinthian, I am Silence ,” I shook her hand, Kloe passed me my drink, and I took a sip before pointing across the street at my store. “I own Sepaga’. The intimate boutique across the street. You should stop by sometimes. We have some limited edition items on sale by two for $22.22 get 2 for $11.11. I'm sure you would look nice in anything.” I tried to hide my thirst. She smiled at me, “I may just do that. Check please.” She stood up and handed her debit card to Kloe`. “How about the next round? I got this one covered.” I pulled my wallet from my purse and handed Kloe a fifty dollar bill. “Keep the change,” I told her. “Any suggestions on what I should try?” I turned my focus back to the beauty in front of me. She smirked at me, “The chicken tuna salad and fresh fruit is to die for. The buffalo chicken dip with restaurant chips is good too. So tell me Silence, will I see you again??” “Well Corinthian, if you stop by the store and check out our limited edition selection of items while our sale is going on this week I’m pretty sure you will. I’m in the store all this week; I’ll be on vacation next week,” I smiled then handed her one of my business cards. She smiled at the card then back at me, “You have yourself a great day Mrs. Tutt.” Watching her walk away, I quickly learned the eye which mocks the father and despises the mother must let the raven in the valley watch the young eagle pick out the eye and eat it since it refuses to obey the proverbs.


When a person dies, part of their spirit transfers to their most-beloved possession. While cleaning your great-grandmother’s attic, looking for hers, you find an old amulet. An elderly, sweet voice echoes through the empty attic, “Who wants lasagna?” “But that can’t be Nana Jones,” you think, “I’ve never seen her cook anything as long as I’ve been alive.” You return the amulet to the hand-carved antique trunk, drifting into thought. Nana Jones always told the best stories, the way that made you feel you were really there. From sword fights with mythical sea-monsters on old sailing ships to enchanting parties reminiscent of the Great Gatsby, she could keep you bound for hours, enthralled by her words. A voice, mumbling something about hauling closer to the wind, brings you back to the attic, as your hand brushes against a heavily patinaed object you’re pretty sure is a sextant. As you take hold of the tool, the same gruff voice echoes in your head, “that bloody sea-witch, she was the death of me and my crew.” You quickly drop the sextant, shocked by the statement, but just as sure it is not her spirit inside. As it hits the bottom of the chest, the dim droplight glistens faintly off the emerald of an old gold hairpin. Turning it over in your hand, you hear the voice of an actress you remember from those black-and-white movies your Nana always used to watch. “When he left me for that hussy, I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but that witch even managed to convince the detective it was a suicide. Me, in the prime of my life, the bee’s knees, top of the world in Hollywood, who’d believe that?” A feeling of dread fills you as you contemplate the totems, placing the hairpin back in the mahogany box. As you close the box and fumble with the clasp, you notice the engraved circle of moon phases seems to glow with a strange light. “These drop lights are getting to me,” you think, shaking your head. A little past the trunk, you find an old photo album, and blow the dust off the cover before wiping it with your sleeve. On the cover is a picture of your great-grandparents on their wedding day, the sepia-toned image giving her dress a dark color, your great-grandfather entranced by her beauty. As you flip through the pages, you see more pictures of them together, she radiating beauty, he full of blissful adoration. You are looking at the photo of the couple jumping over a broom like they used to do back then, when across the attic, you hear a thump! It is a large, heavy-looking book bound in dark leather. Getting closer you notice it is engraved with an encircled star, the same barely-visible glow coming from its grooves. Carefully unbuckling the leather strap, you can almost hear your great-grandmother telling you about pirates and parties, of banshees and sirens. Turning to the first page you see your great-grandmother’s signed by what seems to be a poem written at each point of an inverted star. You read it aloud, unsure of the order: “Is Death restrained for Hellish spawn A dark refrain, a beldam’s thorn? What’s devel made, which angels scorn, Shall never fade, its soul forsworn, Through words arcane, is seldom mourned.” As you finish, a strong gust of wind blows out through the small dormer window at the end of the attic rustling the pages. You hear Nana’s voice clear as crystal, like she’s in the room with you, “Thanks for the help, dearie!” You turn your head to see your great-grandmother, young as her wedding day, standing in front of you. “A good start,” she whispers, “but there’s still much to learn before you meet Lord Lucifer.


They do not give warning to their appearance and never speak. The soft black cloth they wear does not stand out from the normal garb of other nuns. The only feature that makes you second guess are the white clay masks they wear. Flat, smooth and blank. Only two holes for peering eyes to see through. They walk in a diamond formation of four. No one knows if there are more than four, just that they are only seen in one group at a time. Varied only in height, they always look the same. When moving together, they walk closely to each other, making it look as if it were one large black bed sheet moving along the wind. They do not wear any shoes and always have their hands clasped at their chests and heads tilted down, as if in prayer. There seems to be no reason that they walk the streets at night. They will go to a random house and knock three times, with light scratching at the door frame. If there is no answer, they will simply move on. A young woman is tending to her baby. A reminder of the man that left her, she did not resent the child. She placed him in a crib and hummed a soft song. Turning the handle of the door as it closed as to not make a sound, she hears the nuns at her door. Knock Knock Knock Scratch The young woman knows the sign of the nuns, the image of their masks flashes in her mind’s eye, only for a moment. She’s heard of these nuns and their odd behaviors from her mother. Her heart races, but for no other reason than to have something else to focus on. She tells herself not to go to the door, but something clawed at the back of her hot neck, telling her to go answer the door. There was no reason to be afraid, as there has been no reports of the nuns bothering anyone other than with idle conversations. She slowly inches to the door, readying her shaking fingers to open the latch and swing the door open slowly. Thoughts raced in her head and she practiced internally what she was going to say. “How can I help you?”, “What do you need?”, “Have you any idea what time it is?”, “Forgive my bluntness, but please leave me be.”. She could not agree on what to say. She slowly pushed down on the door handle and opened the door slowly. She saw the shadows of their habits and gowns before her eyes adjusted to the dark silhouettes cast by the street light behind the group. The image came into focus and she did not have to guess at what she was seeing any longer. She saw the four nuns standing together, one in front, two in the middle and the last one in the back. It was hard to tell where one of their bodies began and where the other ended, as the black fabrics seemed to twist together in the soft breeze. She could smell something faint, like the smoke of a funeral. Like the canisters that priests swing with the rhythm of the dead leaving this earth. “We do not mean to disturb you mam, but may we have a moment of your time?” The voice of the nun in front asked. Startled by the sound, the young woman braced herself against the half opened door. The nuns voice echoed in her mask, as if she was talking into a ceramic tea kettle. “It’s quite late.” the woman responded, shook by her own frankness. “We understand this, and we are terribly sorry” the nun to the left said “but you see, our sister has given herself a cut on her hand” the nun in the back lifted her hand forward, showing the scarlet ribbon running down, clasped by the other hand as if to hold the blood in. “Would you mind if we bothered you for some bandage so we mare care for the wound?” The woman lowered her hands to her side, un-clenching her fists. “How did she get cut?” she asked. The nun in front answered. “We were walking around the neighborhood and were picking up some broken glass bottles at the park down the street. She is often clumsy with such delicate things, we asked her not to help, but little can be done to ease her worried soul.” The nun looked behind her at the cut, making the hurt nun turn her head away in embarrassment. “She really should take better care with dangerous things.” The young woman thought for a moment. “Why ask my house? You must have passed at least half a dozen on your walk from the park. Was no one else able to answer?” She said, looking down to her neighbors front porches, flood lights above the garages slowly turning off one by one. Indicating that the group had passed these houses already. “”We had tried their doors, with no answer.” the nun to the right responded. “We heard you humming, so we thought we would not be too much of a bother as you were already awake.” The woman stared at the group and back into her house, dimly lit by the kitchen light. “How did they hear me?” She thought. It couldn’t have been loud enough for even someone downstairs to hear, let alone someone outside the home. “If we are being too disruptive, we understand” The nun in the back said, breaking the silence. “I do not wish to be a burden.” The nun said this in a very calming voice. The young woman did not see it as a burden. The group in front of her no longer seemed to frighten her. “Would you mind coming inside? I do not want to make you wait out here.” The young woman opened her door completely and waved her hand in, beckoning them to enter. The nuns looked at each other and whispered. “We do not wish to put you out,” The front nun spoke “But if you insist, we don’t have much say in the matter.” The group filed into her home. The young lady motioned for them to sit in the family room, with a couch and a few love seats. “I don’t have much to offer guests, times a tight. But may I offer you some tea?” The young woman asked, turning a lamp on beside the window. “We eat very well at the coven, but plainly. We do not allow ourselves such stimulants.” One of them said, taking a seat next to her sister. It was difficult keeping track of where their original positions in the formation were. “Oh, I understand” the woman said, sheepishly “I apologize, I didn’t mean to tease you.” One of the nuns assured her that it was fine, and said “God Bless your heart.” The woman went to her kitchen cupboard where she kept the first aid kit. She took out a sealed package of gauze and medical cream. She returned to the nuns with the medical supplies and a bowl of warm soapy water. She gasped and almost dropped the items. She saw that the nuns had removed their masks, but had their hands covering their faces, fingers spread only enough to peek through. “We didn’t mean to spook you, my dear” The nun with the cut hand said. “We believe it rude to wear our masks while being guests to an unfamiliar home. We must still keep our modesty though, as to assure our promise with our lord.” the other nuns nodded in agreement. The woman found this practice bizarre, but considering the situation already, it was not much to add. She knelt in front of the nun with the cut hand. “Let me see it, I’ll tend to it.” The nun stated something about refusing to let her, but she insisted. The nun allowed and lowered her hand, uncovering half her face. The woman could see blue and yellow marks, signs of bruising. She traced her eyes around the nuns face, there were small cuts and old scars. Finally resting at the most jarring detail, her dark, blood-shot eye. This made the woman hold her breath for longer than a moment, making her gasp when she finally let it go. The woman apologized for staring, and tended to the wound. The nun smiled and dismissed the apology. The woman cleaned it with the water and applied ointment, then wrapped it in a few layers of the gauze. When finished, the nun thanked her and replaced her hand on her face. The woman stood up and looked at the other nuns. Each one, fingers pried just enough to see, glinted red eyes back at the woman. She dropped her gaze and returned the items under the sink. The nuns had already stood up and had replaced their masks by the time she returned. Each one placed a hand on her shoulder and exclaimed phrases of gratitude. The woman lead them to the door and let them out, they waved as they turned away and resumed their formation. The woman hesitated before stuttering. “Your faces, and your eyes. Are you...” The nun in front turned and said very frankly, “The lord works in mysterious ways, my dear.” She watched them walk down the street and vanish into the dark. She stood in her doorway for a while before snapping back to lucidity. She had not noticed how much time had passed, as it had already been several hours since she laid her baby to rest. She went up the stairs and opened the door softly. “Are you hungry?” she asked as she peered into the room. Her baby was no longer resting in the crib. In his place was a black gown, a flat habit, and a white, clay mask. The woman cried out.


Sunsets were shorter on this moon than on Gaína. Everything had moved too fast since he'd woken up, healed but weaker. Since he had told Jaya she would be better off without him. Jaya had crossed the doorway of his hospital room and left him alone on a planet he did not know the name of. He had made it to the Intergalactic Academy after three months of... three months of work. It had gone by like a blink, like a nightmare. He has no rights beyond the basic right to life. No right to the money in his pack, no right to the passage he bought to the Academy, no right to demand money for his work and no right to refuse anyone who asks for it. But now he was here. This moon was considerably larger than the one that housed the Mond. Its atmosphere and attributes, along with the technology developed in the Academy, allowed for the growing of flora and assimilation of fauna from various planets. Aside from his home, it was the most colorful place Ono had ever seen. He’d finally made it here, to the Intergalactic Academy, the place of all his ambition. And yet he felt the strongest desire to go home to Gaína, his enslaved planet. No. Not enslaved. Indebted, because of his ancestors’ cruelty during the war. Indebted with an entire galaxy. Indebted. He squeezed himself onto the wide window ledge and counted his own breaths. Living quarters, such as this one, were conditioned to each race that inabited them. The classrooms and halls were commons, artificially suited to all races, but living spaces were cut into sections and modeled with the inhabitants' comfort in mind. There were, of course, no quarters prepared for one such as Ono. He had wanted to sleep outside, under cover of the stars...besides, he had no money to pay for lodging. But his new superior, a gentle Karaktar named Professor Ácimo, refused to let him sleep outside. He had an inversed sort of strength, that wise, fluffy, cowering creature. "If you are to sleep outside," Professor Ácimo had murmured. "I will sleep outside as well." Illogical, but effective. Ono accepted the professor's hospitality, reassured by his promise to make him work harder than any other intern in the Academy. He would pay him back. He could pay him back, because the professor gave value to his work. The tesseract worker took his passage ticket and ripped it in two. Then he made Ono work to supply the energy necessary for the vehicle to work. Ono had worked for the tesseract for three months, until an inspector caught him at it and sent him on his way. Ono had never dealt with windows before. Or low ceilings. But he liked the warmth and clutter of the professor's home. Another professor, who had doctorates in intergalactic law and diplomacy, had told him that he was not permitted to kneel before anyone here. That he stood on the same ground as any other creature, on Academy ground. It didn’t matter if the rest of the five galaxies demanded he greet other creatures with this display of submission. It was a strange feeling. Ono had been dealing with so many feelings lately. Everything seemed to be happening too fast. Down to the sunset. Ono lost count of his breathing. The colors were glorious, red and purple and blue and the barest hint of green on the edges. Nothing on this moon reminded him of home, but its sunsets were still beautiful. Ono ached all over. Inside, beneath his skeleton, bruises bit at him like parasites. Ono knew that, in the morning, he would have to deal with more of them. The diplomacy professor might have told Ono he was an equal to the other students, but the professor was far outnumbered. Outnumbered by his fellow colleagues and by many, many students, including those who had taken their fear and anger out on Ono today. Ono wishes he were not so big compared to them. He wishes he were not a target, despite how useless it is to wish you were not what you are in your essence. I grew like this to serve you, Ono had wanted to say to them. But who would listen? The sun sunk below the horizon. Ono realized his room was dark, pitch black, and he could not see. The door to his bedroom creaked open. "Who is it?" Ono asked. Professor Ácimo always carried a light. He had freely confessed to Ono that the dark terrified him. "That's why I'm among my books, and leave the field to my colleagues." He had chuckled. Ono wondered if the creature in his room had a weapon. He would not have wondered such a thing, at home on Gaína. He had not known creatures were capable of attacking without proactive provocation, but after the Earth woman had stabbed him in the Mond market, he was no longer so sure. "Your roomate." A voice answered cautiously. "My name is Ava." "I was not aware Professor Ácimo had...other tenants." "I'm new, such as you are." Said the voice. "Say...close the window. It's cold out." Ono treaded his fingers up in search of the latch and closed the window. "Are you not afraid of me, Ava?" Ono asks. "Maybe I am." The voice chuckled. "But my curiosity gets the better of me. What's your name?" "Ono." "Ono?" The room smelled strange. The creature's scent reminded Ono of water, of rainy earth. He breathed in quietly; he did not know what was better, more unusual, if this scent or being spoken to with politeness. "Say, Ono. You give off electrons, no?" Ono nodded. "I do." He wondered if the creature was playing a trick on him. The door clicked shut behind it. Ono could not hear any other breaths or heartbeats in the room, excepting Ava's and his. It seemed she was female, small-too small. Small enough to fit inside Ono's two hands. "I'm here." Ava whispered. She did fit into his hands. She floated and placed herself there, just as Ono stretched his hand out to greet her. "I can feel the charge on you... woah." Ono blinked. It was a strange sensation, touching Ava. It almost reminded him of... Her rainy-earth scent was so at odds with how her skin felt. The first reminded him of home, made him feel nostalgic and vulnerable- he had been having to deal with so many feelings, too many feelings, lately. He should have been asleep already, he was tired and he ached. But he had wanted to watch the sunset. Irrational. Unwise. He needed all his energy to prepare for tomorrow. Instead he was here, letting his feelings command him. Ava's skin, by contrast, made him feel awake. Strange. "May I?" Ava said. Ono had no idea what she meant by that question. But she was one of the three creatures who had addressed him kindly these past three months. And it was late. Ono was almost too tired to care whether she meant to harm him or not. He did not want her to leave. His insides did not feel so hollow in her presence. "Yes." Ono said. The sound she made then was like music. It reminded him of something. The feeling in his hands increased, and now he could identify it, as warm and soft, almost ethereal, and... Something in his chest seemed to rush out of him, all at once-he felt exhilarated. He gasped- Ava was no longer in his hands, she had slipped through his defenses, his skeleton, she was- The coiled energy in Ono rushed into Ava, snapping the tension in him, allowing him to breathe. He felt overwhelmed and lost and full of hot, bright light. She was- She was gone. "Earth below." She whispered, from halfway across the room. “That was...” Electric. That word hit Ono like a whip. Only his Jaya made him feel that way, with her kisses, with her touch, and this creature was a stranger , and the room was dark, the night starless, this moon was cold and foreign. What he felt with Jaya, it didn’t belong here. Ono shuddered. He wrapped both arms instinctively around himself. He should not have let her breach his defenses. He felt the need to hold Ava in his hands, he needed her to make sense of what just happened. “Please leave.” He said instead. “Hey, don’t be-“ Ava said. “Please.” Ono’s body hurt. “But I’m-“ “Go away.” Ono stood. His footsteps were too loud on the floor. Ava made another frantic, musical sound and dashed out, taking her rainy-earth smell with her. Ono moved himself back to the window ledge. He sat there, opened the window and looked into the depthless dark. He knew it would be difficult to find sleep tonight. He wrapped both arms around himself and made himself hum a familiar song. Just to feel a vibration in his chest. He felt emptier than ever.


“So was grandpa a soldier?” My 10-year old son asked, looking at me inquisitively. “No! Why do you ask?” I said. “He has this big scar near his eye,” he said, as he flipped the photo album. “Oh yes, the scar!” I said, suddenly remembering. “How did he get it?” he asked. “Oh it is a very funny yet sad story!” I said, sitting next to him now on the couch and looking at the picture that made him curious. In the picture, I was happily sitting in the laps of my grandma with my grandpa sitting next to her. The photo quality was not great but the scar on my grandpa's face was strikingly visible. Pity grandpa didn’t live for long. He had just touched his fifties. Grandma lived to tell the tale about her husband’s scar to me. My son broke my thoughts as I stared at the picture. “So how did he get it?” he repeated the question. I knew my son was looking for some kind of a heroic response. Very typical of boys in that age wanting to become soldiers, fire fighters, pilots or even pirates! As long as there was some action! Should I break his heart and tell him the true story or play with his emotions and tell him an adventurous tale? I wondered. He was now staring at me, waiting for me to start telling him his grandpa’s heroic tale. “Long time ago, when your grandpa was a little boy..” “How little?” my son excitedly interjected. “Ummm...not as little as you, a little older,” “11? 12? 13?...” he asked. "Stop stop stop! You don’t have to start counting your numbers, he was 14!” “I was close,” he said. “Yes, I should have made you stop when you said 14! Sorry!” “Ok, what happened then?” “Well, he was a very fidgety boy,” I replied. “What is a fidge-et-tee?” “Who just can’t sit still,” I answered. “Aah! I can!” he said proudly, as he suddenly sat erect. “Oh yes, you sure can and daddy is so proud of you!” I said with a smile. “So, I am not fidge-et-tee,” he said. “No, you are not!” “Grandpa always kept moving his hands or his legs if he had nothing to do,” I continued. “That’s strange!” he said, making a little frown. “Very!” “Did his mum and dad not take him to a doctor?” “Unfortunately, no. As they thought he was just bored and had nothing to do,” I said. “Ok, what happened then?” “So, one day on his 14th birthday, his dad gifted him a pen.” “A pen? Who gifts a pen? It is a boring gift!” my son said. “Well, it was not an ordinary pen!” “You mean it was magical,” he said, suddenly getting all excited. “No, not magical but it had pictures of his favourite cartoon characters and a small light at the top that lit up when you wrote with it,” I said. “That’s magical,” my son said with an awe. “Anyway, so my grandpa played with his pen all day long. My great grandparents did not know whether to be upset or happy about it. It was always in his hand. He took it with him everywhere!” “How could he play with a pen?” he asked. “He kept fidgeting with it!” I said, stressing on the word fidgeting. “Fidge-et-ting? Couldn’t keep still,” he said. I smiled. “Yes, he put it between his two fingers and kept moving it,” I said, trying to show him the action using my fingers. "In fact, even while he was studying or reading, he would have it in his one hand and shake it continuously,” I continued. “He never got tired?” “Nah! In fact it kept him active,” he said, sounding surprised. “But one day, he returned home from school, all sulking and teary-eyed.” “Because he lost his pen?” “No, because it got confiscated by his class teacher. He was taking it to school every day and twisting it between his fingers while he was in the class. The teacher got very annoyed one day and confiscated it.” “Con-si-fi-cated?” “Con-fis-ca-ted,” I said slowly, focusing on every syllable. “Con-fis-ca-ted,” he repeated. “Yes, when your teacher takes away something that you should not be bringing to school!” I explained. “Grandpa must be very sad!” “Extremely. He stopped talking much with everybody at home or in his school,” I replied. “That’s sad!” “Very! So, one day, his mum went up to him and made him promise that as long as he didn’t take the pen to school again and play all the time with it, she would go to his school and request his class teacher to return it.” The son was now hearing the story very intently. “So what happened next?” He asked. “Well, on hearing this, my grandpa jumped with joy and promised his mum that he would not take his precious pen to school ever or play with it. He would just keep it in his pen-stand and only use it for writing.” I continued. Getting closer to climax, no, not climax but an anti-climax is always disappointing. I was still weighing in my head if I should turn the story around and turn it in to some adventure. Was it necessary to tell him the truth? “So did his mum go to his school the next day?” “She sure did! She went to his class teacher and requested her to return the pen to grandpa. She even told the class teacher that her little boy would not bring the pen to the school again.” “And then?” “The class teacher returned the pen,” I said. “And then?” “Your grandpa was thrilled. As soon as they reached home, he took the pen and put it in his pen-stand.” My boy was happy as well. “Grandpa made sure he didn't take the pen to school again.” “Yes, else it would be con-si-fic...” my son said. I smiled and said, “yes, con-fis-ca-ted. But he didn’t keep a part of his promise.” I was finally reaching the end of the story. I decided to go with the truth. There were enough magical and brave stories around. “He played with his pen?” my son said. “Uh-huh!” “What did he do?” “One evening, he moved it so fast that the pen flipped from his fingers and hit the ceiling of his room!” I said. “Wow! and then?” “The pen came back hurling down, with its light turned on, and hit my grandpa’s face. Luckily it didn't hit his eyes,” I said softly. “Yes, but it was close,” my son said, looking at the picture again. We were quiet. Suddenly he laughed and said, “grandpa was a very naughty boy!” “Very!” I said, and laughed along with him.


The view was breathtaking. Katja held on gently to Max, one of her closest friends. She saw that he was preparing. With his beak in the wind, he felt where the wind would take him. In the distance he looked for a place to land safely. Katja felt a twinge of jealousy. Max was convinced that one day he would learn to fly. Katja did not have that hope. Shortly after this moment it started. The disappearances. First, Max disappeared. It had been a beautiful night because of the full moon and Katja had not been able to sleep well. Every twig poked through her feathers. The next day, tired, she went looking for Max. There was no response to her calls. No one in the village knew where Max could be. Nobody worried, as if they knew where he was. "Do not worry." Was the only message they gave her. Katja had persuaded Pim to search the ruins together. Max had already disappeared for a few weeks, but the new full moon would have allowed them to search extra long tonight. Maybe all night long. They searched behind walls, in hollows and on all remaining roofs. There was no trace anywhere. In the end Katja agreed with Pim and they decided to go back to their nest. Katja led the way, humming to keep herself awake. For the outsider a light chirp. As a result, it took longer for her to realize that there was no sound behind her. "Good night, Pim!" Katja walked towards her parents' nest and sat between them. In the morning Katja was awakened by loud voices. She looked up carefully and saw that her parents were busy talking. "She's awake!" Pim's father came up to her. "Where is he? You searched together last night, right? Where were you?" His beady eyes seemed to want to see through Katja. Like X-rays. Her father intervened. "Calm down, Sjaak." He turned to Katja. "When did you last see Pim?" He asked her quietly. "Last night, just before I got home." She responded in a small voice. "How so?" "And where?" "At the ruins." She tilted her head as she watched them. "The ruins?" Her father suddenly seemed relieved. He patted his back. Sjaak looked a lot happier. To her surprise, no one cared about the disappearances. Katja did not understand. "What's with that ruin?" Her father looked at Katja. He doubted whether to answer. "That's the last place Max was seen." He paused. "You will learn when it's your time, I promise." A huge shadow moved across the forest over them. "Whoo-hoooo!" Katja and her father looked up. In the distance they saw Max skimming through the air, Pim flew after him at full speed. They laughed and spun around treetops before flying back towards the mountain. Towards the ruin. Katja began to understand and ran up the mountain. She, like Max and Pim, would make sure she would be next. The next to learn to fly.


I met her Monday morning. She was peering into the large glass double doors of the office building in which I worked in the Los Angeles area. My mood matched the ugliness of the grey clouds having spent the previous afternoon and evening with the guys drinking beer and watching the pathetic Chargers lose until I asked, “Can I help you?” And then she turned around and so did my mood. Her name was Farah Cassidy. She was a new hire. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “I can’t figure out how to get in,” she said sweetly brushing a stray strand of honey blonde hair away from her face. To which I said, “Allow me.” By mid-morning, Cliff, my roommate, co-worker, and best friend, appeared at my cubicle. I spun away from the computer and faced him. He, we, all the men dressed in two-piece suits. If we left the cubicle we had to put on our coats. The old man liked the old days. Cliff expressed his refusal to conform by wearing ties typically with sharp jarring patterns and colors or as if created by a cartoon artist. He kept them loose around his thick neck and wore his top dress shirt button undone. Mine tended to be more of a conservative pattern and coloring with a little pizazz on the weekend. We were both clock watchers, just trying to keep our heads above water until lunch then punch out to go home and fuck off gaming for a few hours before doing it all over again. “You see the new girl?” he said smiling and raising an eyebrow. “What’s her name?” I shook my head. Cliff, ever since he started dating one of our coworkers, turned any conversation regarding anything into how I should get a girlfriend. Truth was she’d been in my head since meeting her. “Farah,” I replied. “Did you need something? Because I have lots of paperwork and phone calls. You still work here, right?” He straightened up and waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Maybe you can get a shot in at the Christmas party on Friday.” “I hadn’t planned to go.” I spun around and unlocked my computer. “Well don’t wait too long, the sharks are circling.” And we were. I included myself in the pool of men who went out of their way to introduce themselves to Farah as she sat in the cafeteria reviewing corporate materials. I took the long route to the restrooms to steal a glance at her. To my joy, she gave a small wave. Of course, I stopped by to say hi and see how things were going. She had removed her business suit coat. Her shoulders and arms were pale and delicate. Gold hung around her neck, circled her wrists, and dangled from her earlobes. “Everyone has been so nice to me,” she said. I told her if she needed anything to let me know. She said everyone’s been saying that. I needed to step up my game. * At the Christmas party, I stepped up my game. Alcohol always helps. That Friday night Farrah and I spent twenty minutes in my cubicle away from co-workers who were wishing one another Merry Christmas. She playfully teased me about the family photo on my desk, the one with my entire family at the reunion years ago. But she raised a plucked and penciled eyebrow at the image of the dubious octopoid on my mouse pad. “It’s Cthulhu,” I told her and quickly looked to switch conversational gears. Cliff warned me not to frighten her off with all the horror, sci-fi, and fantasy “shit” we watch. My confidence began to falter. “He lives at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean,” I blurted. “The ocean,” Farah said musically. She sipped the golden bubbling wine from her clear plastic cup. She licked her lips. “I love seafood.” And then like an idiot, I said. “I know how to cook.” And then after her face brightened, I doubled down and blurted, “I can cook seafood.” But my stupidity paid off because she said she would come by the following weekend for dinner. * “Holy shit!” Cliff exclaimed upon seeing the culinary operation I had underway in our small kitchen apartment for my dinner with Farrah. “Someone wants to get laid!” He called me a loser and then left to spend the night at his girlfriend’s apartment in the city. Our apartment, #218 on the second floor of unit two in the Bountiful Hills apartment complex in the San Francisco Bay area was not Fung Shui. More like shit flung everywhere. We shared a common kitchen with a small counter and table with four wobbly chairs a buddy loaned me years ago and then he moved away without it. We watched TV in the adjoining living room from either Cliff’s parent's cast-off couch or the maternity rocking chair one of our co-workers had wanted to unload. The kitchen tile and living and bedroom carpets were an unattractive light brown. The linoleum in the shared bathroom was also brown. The walls were white and the only item hanging from them which got attention was the dartboard. The living room’s sliding glass door led out onto the small covered wooden deck. The Kennedys, cool couple, lived below us. From our second-floor balcony, we could see Mt. Diablo looming in the distance beyond the freeway. Eucalyptus trees grew in the neighborhood and their minty aroma wafted through the apartment. Our comfortable bedrooms were identical in design and similarly furnished. Closet, dresser, double bed, and gaming computer at a desk. One game chair and three monitors. I had a menacing Cthulhu figurine on my dresser beside a green glowing essence dispenser misting cinnamon vapors to dispel any funk. A few items Cliff determined too geeky had been stored in the sliding paneled closet. But the horror movie posters stayed up. I spent the morning cleaning and the afternoon shopping. Mom made painfully sure we knew how to handle mop, sponge, spray bottle, and vacuum. The apartment sparkled and smelled chemically disinfected. At Whole Foods I spent one hundred and fifty dollars. Cliff laughed. “You should have gone out to dinner. It’d been cheaper.” I found the music from the 70s and 80s punk rock group The Cars particularly perfect for setting a nice atmosphere with their up-and-down music about the ups and downs of love. I played “Since You’re Gone” and got to work. I got the recipe from the internet. The picture looked simple enough. An iron skillet filled with sizzling shrimp in a slight light brown broth and sprinkled with green and red seasonings beside a platter of yellow rice. I’d never cooked anything this elaborate in my life. Food was from restaurants, take out or the patio BBQ. My pattern was to ask someone out and then for whatever reason we moved on. “It’s because no girl wants to watch horror movies,” Cliff had said. But I keep hoping and trying. * She arrived. The butterflies were going nuts. She giggled, laughed, and bounced into the apartment where I closed the door and took her coat. She wore an eye-snaring, heart-stopping bright floral dress and smelled wonderful. I gave her a tour of the apartment. “OH, there’s that guy,” she said pointing at Cthulhu. “You’re room’s interesting.” I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. We enjoyed a glass of wine while I finished preparing dinner. She had a million questions, which was a good sign, right? I followed the recipe or at least I thought I had. We opened a second bottle of wine, and I may not have paid as much attention to it as I thought. I was not a fan of shrimp. Up until then my only one experience with it had been as a disgusting cup of shrimp cocktail set before me at dinner at a friend’s house one night ages ago. It had been cold, rubbery, and crunchy. I saw no reason to try it again until Farrah said she liked seafood. You get one chance to make a first impression. I wanted to make this one count. I had set out a white tablecloth, green placemats, and proper shining silverware. I think it impressed her. When dinner was ready and served along with garlic bread, and salad, I made a toast. “Bon Appetite.” “It smells delicious,” she said. We dug in. When I bit into the crustacean’s crunchy shell and tasted a mushiness, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. “Did you devein these?” she asked, speaking through a mouthful of unchewed food. “De-what?” I felt my face grow warm as she then I spit our food into our napkins. Perhaps I had not followed the recipe as well as I thought I had. I profusely apologized to her, to which she gracefully told me not to worry about it. She suggested ordering pizza. We cleaned up, finished that bottle of wine with the pizza while watching a movie. “Oh, I don’t like horror movies,” she said when I suggested watching my go-to pic when introducing horror to someone who says they don’t like it. Even after politely pointing out its awards and the money it made, she preferred to watch something funny. The movie ended and she had to go. I walked her to her car. I didn’t go in for the kiss. I chickened out. I think if not for the shrimp incident my chances may have been better. “I had a really wonderful time tonight,” she said and drove off. The opportunity to say, “Next time let’s go to a restaurant,” came and went and I headed back into the apartment to watch a horror movie and wondered if I wanted a next time. * “How was the date?” Cliff asked the next day when he returned to the apartment. “Details!” He made exaggerated hand gestures as if holding large round objects on his chest. I thought about Farrah. The way she smelled. And then about shrimp. She didn’t like horror movies either. To switch gears, I asked how his girlfriend was. I listened to him explain what happened. They broke up. He Showed up and he’d been the one who had been surprised. He said he was fine. It’s best not to pester a friend about their problems unless they are struggling. I think Cliff and I will be fine. We agreed it would be best to avoid dating people where we both worked. “Dude!” Cliff said enthusiastically. “Next weekend you, me the bars. Yeah?” I told him he’d been right. “I should have taken Farrah out to dinner.” We laughed, drank beer, watched sports, gamed, went to bed, and then got up to do it all over again.


Before the beginning of time. Before anything, there was nothing. And in nothing was the possibility for everything. When creation was at its dawn reality wasn't yet possible. For to make reality possible, creation had to remove the impossible. To remove the impossible creation had to make the impossible possible. For the impossible, creation created The Doh. Vessels for the Impossible to be kept to not breach the dimension of xy and z. Doh are beings made to keep different parts of the impossible which if together could create punctures in reality. In total creation made seven Doh: Miraal, Griel, Oriel, Uriel, Rael, Sarael, and Lucif. Each of which had pieces of the impossible inside of them. Miraal, the eldest, holding the power to reshape what's already been made. Griel, the strongest, holding the power to erase matter in a breath. Oriel, the smartest, holding the power to disassemble and pull apart molecules from the source. Uriel, the youngest, holding the power to change physics at will. Rael, the weakest, holding the power to travel between realities. Sarael, the shyest, holding the power to remove pieces of reality into her "safe place". And Lucif, the Boldest, holding the power to bring back the dead of the living in twisted grotesque forms. Together they made the Impossible Seven. When creation found out about what the vessels for the impossible could do it took The Doh and locked them away outside of reality in their own pocket dimension. Kept far away from one another they stay, not seeing, moving, or attempting escape. The Doh are not malevolent by any means but even you just wonder. If you have been forced to solitude since the dawn of time. Would you stay idle? As he finishes his story I have a question I need an answer to. "Grandpa that's a interesting story and all but what happened to creation?" I ask as he finishes his monologue. "What do you mean Rael?" My grandpa asks me. "Well the way you describe creation is like a person or something. What happened to it? When did it end?" I ask more detailed. Grandpa laughs a little and explains, "creation never ended. It is in all of us, animals, people, plants. It is why we can create life, like your mom and dad made you. But just because creation can create life doesn't itself mean it is alive." He finishes. "Ah ok." I say. "Alright Dad it's time for Rael's bedtime." My dad says. Pretending to be shocked he looks at his watch. "I hadn't even noticed Kanon." He says to my dad. He pays my head and heads out. "Goodnight princess." "Goodnight Dad." I say. oOo "Why would you tell her that story?" Kanon says. "Because she deserves to know even if she doesn't know the full story." Grandpa says. "You are pushing the line. Any more and we'll have to reboot again." Kanon says. "You know this will never end. You are a creation made to keep her in limbo, whereas I'm her mind forcing her to realize this world isn't real. Why else do you think in every incarnation she keeps her name?" He says. "Then so be it," Kanon says. The world around them, excluding Rael's room, begins to dissipate. In the end everything is black and the void around them only holds them and her room. "We're going to try again. This time we're going to make her a teenager. She hasn't been a teenager in a long time." "You know you won't be able to hide this forever." He says as he starts to fade away. "I will as long as I'm able. Now go away and get reformed as a friend or something Morpheus." Kanon says. "This is the last time." That was the last thing Morpheus had to say before he faded away completely. "Sure it is. I need to inform the other watchers to reset their world's as well." It's a pain in the arse to have to do this everytime but being The Doh are all twins their minds will always be synced in this dimension. So to reset one is to reset them all. oOo We've been at this for over 14.3 billion years. The watchers resetting The Doh's minds when anyone of them gets to close to the truth of their prison and we, their conscious, try to end their prison. But that's all we are a conscious. We can't get them out only they can. The fact that we even exist is a side affect of them being 'impossible'. But this is the last time. They aren't even had they are exactly as they were made. They didn't choose to be the wielders of impossible but they will get a chance at freedom. As I look on in the physical world at Rael's body, blindfolded, chained, and motionless. In a floating temple she can't even acknowledge. In my physical form I can observe but I cannot free her. I kneel and rub my hand across her face. "You will be free this time." I use the rest of my power to give her one fragmented memory of her life before bondage. With that final moment both my physical and spiritual body was gone. oOo In the end Kanon followed through and reset Rael and the other Doh's minds but what they didn't know is The Doh were never truly under their spell all these millennia. In the silence, the darkness, the cold stone temple Rael is a low hushed tone uttered one word. A name. The one thing in the void that cared enough for her to help her. Her own conscious. Her own protector. Morpheus.


Amelia, look how much you have grown. I say, as I show her the line I had just marked on the door frame. She giggled and jumped up and down. Her curly red hair bounced till it looked like an untamed mess. Her blue eyes shined brightly, as she smiled at me. Her dimples just showing through. She was only four, but some days she acted like a teenager. My Jonathan would have loved to see her grow up. But, fate wouldn’t allow it. He died in a car accident when she was only two. Her red hair had come from him. She didn’t get my brown hair, but she did get my blue eyes. Johnathan's eyes were green. So now every time I see her with that red hair, I see him. I shake my head to keep from tearing up. Even after two years, my heart aches. Amelia is already grabbing my hand, and wanting to go outside to play. I took her outside so she could play on our swing set. I breathe in the fresh country air. Our little white house looks peaceful with the backdrops of fields surrounding it. My husband and I bought this place when we were pregnant. This was our home, and the thought of possibly losing it, had me wringing my hands together. I watched Amelia as she picked some of the butter cups that had started to bloom. I didn’t want this moment to end, but I had much to do before running to town. Amelia, time to go in, I call. I sweep her up into a big hug before carrying her inside. ‘’Lindsey, I need some help here’’. I walk into the living room. My sister was already halfway in with a bag of groceries. What is all this, I ask Sarah. I figured while you were out, Amelia and I would make up a pot of spaghetti, her favorite. You really didn’t have to do that, I tell her. I know she explained, but I love cooking with my little sweetie. Fine, she is in her room playing. I will only be gone a few hours. I know she said, shooing me out the door. I chuckle to myself, as I hear her calling for Amelia. I make my way to the bank and take a couple deep breaths. Money has been tight lately, and making some of the payments was getting harder and harder. Jonathan did leave some money when he passed, but not enough. Amelia needed surgery last year to remove her tonsils. Now, even with me working as a secretary, it has been hard. All I needed was a loan so I could pay off some debts, and be down to just one payment. By consolidating this way, I could keep us afloat, and back on track. I checked my make up in the mirror one more time before I headed in. I wave at a few people I know, as I make my way to Mr. Deaton’s office. Why hello, Mrs. Bradley, please come in. Thank you, but please call me Lindsey. I wait patiently as he goes over my finances. After several minutes, he looks up, with his glasses pulled down on his nose. He runs his hand through his short brown hair. Lindsey, I know this loan would help you out quite a bit, but this is considered a risky loan. I just don’t know if the bank will be able to help you without any form of collateral. I try to keep from wringing my hands together. I understand, but the only thing I have is the house. I understand, said Mr. Deaton. But unfortunately, it is your only option. The thought of such a big gamble, made me break out in a sweat. I rub my hand over my face, and take a calming breath. I know there is no other choice. I finally agreed to use my house as the collateral for the loan. I finish signing all the papers and stand up to leave. Mr. Deaton gives me an encouraging smile, but I only half-heartedly return it. I walk down the street, just taking some time before I have to head home. I decided to stop in at Sally’s bookstore. The smell of old books always seemed to calm me. Why hello Sally, how is your day going? Mrs. Sally was a widower, who bought the store when she retired from teaching. She was in her late sixties, but I thought she could pass for late fifties. She was barely even gray headed. ‘’Oh, hello my dear.’’ My day has been kind of slow, but I'm sure I’ll be getting busy soon, she said. I nod my head absently, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Lindsey, I can tell you are a million miles away, she said. I’m sorry, I just have a lot on my mind is all. Sally gives me a long look. Are you having money issues, she asks. I’m completely dumbfounded by her directness. I stammer for a minute, then shake my head. No, of course not I try to explain. But, it sounded flat even to my own ears. Sally just shook her head. ‘’You know I love you and Amelia as if you were my own kin”. I smile at her already knowing this. I know, and we love you too. I have already talked to the bank, and everything is fine now. I could tell she didn’t really believe me. After reassuring her that everything was going to be fine, I was able to head out. As I’m driving home, my cell rings. Hello, I answer. Yes, Mrs. Bradley, this is Mr. Deaton. I try not to let the panic show in my voice. Why would the bank be calling me so soon after I had left? I just wanted to call and let you know that everything was finalized, and the money will be in your account tomorrow. Oh, thank you Mr. Deaton for letting me know. Also, there’s one more thing he continued. I start to sweat a little at his words. Yes, I answer slowly. Are you aware that a substantial amount of money was just deposited into your account very recently. I immediately pull over on the side of the road. I was completely confused. I’m sorry, how is that possible, I ask him. It seems that an anonymous person has transferred money to your account. I try to keep my breathing from going erratic. Why would someone do that, I thought. Are you sure, it isn’t some mix up I ask. No mam, I double checked it myself. Is there any way you can tell me who it’s from, I ask. I’m afraid not, but this is great news, he explained. I thanked him and hung up. While still sitting there, I realized it had to be Sally. I quickly called her. As soon as she answered I started asking her about the money. ‘’Lindsey, slow down my dear”. I don’t know anything about any money. Are you sure, I ask. I explained to her what the bank said. Oh, she said quickly. What is it I ask? She proceeded to tell me that a young man who was in the back of the store while I was there, asked who I was. What did you tell him I asked. I talked about how you were a hard worker, with the sweetest little girl. Do you know the man’s name I asked? “I’m sorry dear, I sure don’t”. Do you think he could have been the person behind the money she asked? At this point, I’m starting to think it might be possible. I don’t know, I answer. Sally, I have to, but can you not mention any of this. Sally agreed and we hung up. I finally calm my nerves and start heading back home. It was very possible a complete stranger would be so kind. But, in this day in age, it was hard to believe. I decided it would be best not to mention it to my sister. At least not yet. When I got home I could hear the two in the kitchen. Amelia was already asking about cookies after supper. I stop by the door frame and run my hand along the markings. Thanks to the anonymous helper, there will be many more marks to come. I smile to myself, knowing that everything is going to be, Ok.


“It has to be you.” The old man said in a harsh, subdued tone. “The King will remember you.” The meeting was held near the towns square. In the only barn that was not facing the main street. A single candle was lit, bathing the old wooden building in more shadows than light. Around the candle 5 men were crouching. The elders sat on crates so they did not have to put up the struggle of getting up from the straw covered ground again. Only Mad, the youngest men in the circle, sat there cross legged, arms folded and shaking his head. “No, no. I can’t!” his whisper as loud as a shout inside the barn. “It was ages ago! What if he gets angry at me for speaking up and throws me into the dungeon? What if they kill me right on the spot? I have a wife! I have children!” He looked at the old men, meeting everyone's eyes one after the other. A noise outside interrupted his plead for mercy. Stiff and full of fear the men did not dare to move, nor to speak. Mad held his hands above the flame, covering the low gleam of light and the room became dark again. Just as the rest of town. During these times no one was allowed to walk outside their homes in the little town called Sanitysville. People were banned from the streets, from the fields and from their taverns. Restrictions issued by the King himself forbid the townsfolk to linger, gather and meet. For their own protection and the protection of their kingdom. And like everywhere else, it was enforced by the men who has taken the Kings coin and became soldiers in his name. Through messages, baked in bread, a secret meeting between the town elders and the young man named Mad was held. The noise faded and Mad lifted his hands from the candle. The old men were all staring at him, still alarmed and half of terror. “Mad,” the eldest said. “If you don’t go, we will all die. Food is already low, almost empty. If folks don’t work there is nothing left. If folks don’t work there is no coin left to buy from the market in Halfswitsville. If people don’t get out of their houses soon, men will start beating their wives, wives will start killing their husbands and everyone else is just going loony. “Mad,” the old man was almost inaudible now. His defeated look only intensified in the flickering of the candle, “if you don’t go and convince the King to lift the Lockdown, we all will die. Your children, your wife and all other folk. The town needs you Mad.” The Lockdown was harsh and forced upon the whole Kingdom. The fields stood empty. The markets were closed and neither traders nor tinkers could be found on the roads. The only people allowed outside were the Kings soldiers and one representative from each town, who had to be chosen in advance, sent 10 days into solitary confinement and then travel along with the soldiers to the castle. There he was allowed 5 minutes of the Kings time. In the end Mad agreed to the elders proposal and went into the quarantine soldiers had set up just out of town. It was not more than a shed. Without a bed, a table and a chair. There was no window and the only light piercing through, were by cracks in the uneven wood. Twice a day he was given food, cold stew and stale bread. At first his stomach revolted yet settled after realizing that bad food was still better than none. He spent his time sitting in the corner opposite his bucket to shit into. With closed eyes he listened to the sounds of nature and low murmur of the soldiers passing by. He thought about his family and friends, wondering if he would ever see them again. In the nights he dreamed of the times they drank in the tavern. He would wake with the lingering taste of ale and wine on his tongue and smiled. These were good times. He missed the conversations with his wife and the jokes he used to trade with his neighbors. But here in quarantine Mad was not allowed to speak. Not a single word could be talked for the soldiers had the order to kill him without a warning nor a trial if he did. When they finally let him out he was weak of not having moved. He stank of not having washed and was desperate for human interaction. Even with the soldiers, whom he thought by now as prison guards. They were grim looking young men. By the way they talked, Mad guessed, they haven’t had any education. Yet they enjoyed their role and the power inherited by it. After a hard day of walking through the woods and over the plain land of the kingdom they arrived at the castle. “The guards inside take over, they will.” One of the soldiers he traveled with said. “If you come back, other guards take you back home, they will.” What did he mean with that? Did it often happen, that spokesman not return to their homes? Mad did not dare to speak up and ask. He did not even knew when he was allowed to speak at all. It was the first time that Mad entered the castle of the King. He followed the guards who led him inside and gazed around, fascinated and overwhelmed by the monumental size of everything he saw. The bare stone walls stood three man tall. From the ceiling hung chandeliers, its diameter larger than his outstretched arms. The floor was smooth, made of slabs large as men and maybe four times the weight. Inside the hall, where the King received the spokesmen of towns, red carpet covered the path to walk. It felt soft under Mads feet, as if walking barefoot on grass. The King sat on his high chair in the middle of the room, elevated from the rest of the hall. He was a man of middle age and round features. His beard was as black and bushy as a dogs fur. Yet he did not look bitter or mean. Mad had the feeling that is was worry that engulfed his features. To his left sat the Queen. Half asleep in her seat, bored and restless from the ordeals of being the first lady. To the Kings right sat Paranoos - his adviser. Rumor in town was, that it was his word the King followed and led him to the decision to forbid the interaction between folk. Mad just stood there, motionless. His eyes averted, looking at a particularly bleak spot on the floor. He did not know about the rules or how to behave, but not addressing the King before being ask sounded to him like a good start to survive this lunacy. “Speak, townsman.” The voice that rolled through the hall was dark and commanding. The King himself had spoken. “Your majesty,” Mad said, bending the knee and avoiding eye contact. “I...I am your humble servant.” “So you say, boy.” Mad could hear a question out of the Kings voice, but he didn’t dare to react. “What is the matter of you coming here?” “I...We...My...” Mad stammered without saying anything, then caught himself, “The elders of my town, Sanityville, your majesty, they sent me. I...they...we...we ask to be released.” With his eyes staring holes into the ground, he could not see the reaction of the King nor his wife or adviser. Yet, the following silence was enough to let his whole body shiver. He said the wrong thing. He was sure of it. “Tell me boy,” the Kings voice heated, “why would I end the Lockdown? Why would I end the only thing that keeps me safe? Keeps you save? Keeps us all save?” Mad didn’t know how to answer. Mad didn’t know what the King was talking about. Why would they be safe by not being allowed to leave their homes? But this wasn’t the time to be the ignorant farmer. He knew he only had this chance to speak up to the king and save his town from poverty and the upcoming starvation. “Your majesty, my King,” Mad said, “you always have been a benevolent ruler.” Mad risked a glance at the Kings face. He was still impassive and looked angry. “You cut the taxes when harvest was bad. You sent soldiers when bandits were looming the country. You build churches for the God fearing folk and offer the coin for men who wants to join the ranks of your army. “We, the town of Sanityville thank you for all that, your majesty.” The King seemed pleased with what he heard. He leaned back in his enormous chair and motioned Mad to continue. “My King, your folk is dying.” Mad said. “For months now the markets are closed. People can’t go to work and produce the goods which pays their food. The farmers cannot harvest their fields. Men go mad with wife and children at home, my King. Folks are not being made for staying in a cage. We need to be free! We need to go out and see! We need the taverns back! We need the brothels back!” “All you want is the Crown of the King!” Paranoos, the adviser shouted. “You want to spread the disease for the Crown and kill your King! You peasants, filthy and uneducated are not realizing that your majesty is saving your life and that of your townsfolk! And how do you thank him? With betrayal and threats?” Paranoos pointed a finger to the guard standing next to Mad. “Soldier, arrest this fool and hang him for treachery!” “HOLD!” the King boomed and stood up from his chair facing down on his adviser. “I am the King. I decide whom to hang!” Paranoos slouched in his seat and nodded dutiful. The King turned back to Mad. “What is your name, boy?” “Ma...ma...my name is Mad, your majesty.” “Mad...hmm...” The King mused. “Are you the one who saved my son from the boar?” The Queen asked, suddenly awoken from her daze. “I am, my Queen.” Mad sad, with a slow bow of his head. “Stand up.” The King commanded. He looked Mad over as if seeing him for the first time. “Why do you risk the talk of treachery, when you once have been bathed in the grace of your King?” “It is not my intend to betray my King. Nor have I intend for the Crown.” Mad looked at the Kings adviser with a frown. “I am merely telling your majesty what is going on in your countryside.” “You say you are not carrying the disease that is spreading through my kingdom?” The King asked. “I am not aware of having any disease, my King. I am healthy as I have ever been. So is the townsfolk.” “My adviser tells me, that the townsfolk in my kingdom is spreading the disease of the Crown. Are you suggesting that Paranoos is lying?” “No, no, my King!” Mad folded his hands and started praying under his breath. “But...how can I know of any disease? I am not a physician. But neither are your soldiers. And I don’t recall people have been treated by physicians in the past, my King.” Despite his trembling body and the sweat forming under his hair Mad’s blood froze under the King’s stern look. He thought about his children, watching them grow up. His wife who bloomed during pregnancy and always smiled when he got home from a hard day in the fields. The times were never easy, but they were better. Life was better. Without turning away from Mad the King said: “Paranoos, explain to him the disease for the Crown.” The adviser stood up and walked over to Mad, regaining his posture and sense of status. Looking down at Mad he spoke: “The lower folks, such as you, are infected. Infected with a disease that spread through the minds of the uneducated. It is contagious, a virus that have its seeds in the heads,” he tapped his temple with the index finger,, “and grows from there. Like a spark lighting fire it grows and consumes. Until there is not enough space left in those exhausted minds it stretches and reaches out for other minds. And when all and everyone are infected-” Paranoos left the sentence unfinished and just mimicked the outcome with his hands. “That is, when you start for the Crown.” Mad looked confused between Paranoos and the King. “I...I don’t understand. What spreads between the people? Is it like the pollen of flowers and trees? Or spores from the mushrooms?” “Ideas!” the King bellowerd. “Ideas are spreading between you and your fellow citizens. Ideas to take over my Crown!” Was that was it was all about? The King in his High Castle is afraid of being overturned by farmers? The simple thought of him sitting on the thrown and ruling the country was amusing and he fought the urge to start laughing. “My King, it is not my place to question your decision nor your the choice of advisers.” Mad avoided eye contact as he said it. But he knew he had to say something. The whole situation was beyond himself, but he was here and the only one who could save his town, his friends and family. “When I grew up, your grace, I was taught the laws to obey. I knew from when I was at young age that caught stealing you may loose your hand. Evading taxes may cost your freedom and that taking a life in anger or revenge is punished by death. I accept these rules, for they are wise. And not only me, but all of your kingdom benefits from it.” The King nodded in agreement and motioned Mad to go on. “I lend you the strength of my body and work to feed my family and pay your taxes. The artist lends you his creativity to fill your ears with music and view with art. The soldier lends you his life for fighting under your command. “The mind however, with all due respect my King, is not yours to command.” The silence that followed was danger lingering in the air. Like dark clouds forming to become thunderstorm. Lightning about to strike. The Kings face was a fury of emotions. How could a peasant of his dare to speak to him like that? He took a deep breath to let out his anger. But before he could speak, his wife the Queen interrupted. “Let him speak, my King. I want to know what more he has to say. After all, if the disease is only contagious among the uneducated, we have nothing to fear, have we?” Outraged Paranoos spoke up: “My King, we cannot allow this to happen! The mind of this boy is already corrupted and will--” “Silence!” The King boomed. “My wife has spoken and I honor her wishes.” With squinted eyes he said to Mad: “Continue.” Mad swallowed hard and tried to bring his breath back under control. After a few seconds he continued. “The minds of men are not to fear my grace. We are simple men, with simple needs and simple ambitions. We have neither aim nor intention to claim the crown of yours - and never had. To me, it looks like harder work than tending the fields, your grace. No offense.” “None taken.” The King said with the hint of a smirk. “Caging a man for wrongdoing is the right thing to do, but imprisoning the mind is worse than death. Men are made to be outside in the nature. Men are made to interact with men. We are connected, one to another. Ideas are meant to enlarge our society in wealth and purpose my grace. Ideas are the small steps humankind takes to become better, to improve and progress. Without ideas my grace, roads could not have been build. Without ideas, weapons could not have been built. Without ideas, food could not have been grown for all of us. “Ideas are spreading like wildfire, I agree. But it is not burning the thoughts of people and leaving ashes and a barren mind behind, unable to grow anything after. Ideas are the fertile ground of imagination. And without imagination even a fairytale story are just words strung together.” Mad looked his King in the eyes. “Is your grace really afraid of the ideas of simple men just like me, or put an educated mind this idea in your head?” The Queen stood up from the slumber position of her seat and walked over to Mad. She took both his hands in hers and leaned closer to whisper something in his ear. With the grace of a woman who is accustomed to power she then brushed by her husband and gave him a look, without saying a word. There was no need for talking anymore. It was said enough. The King nodded to his personal guard and gave him permission to act, like a performance studied and rehearsed a thousand times. As the King and his Queen sat back on their chairs, a man was taken in custody and never seen again. Later it was said, that the root of an idea lit himself on fire.


Somewhere under Tim's floppy brown hair, behind his liquid pale blue eyes, buried deep inside his cavernous gut, two words remained submerged under a lifetime of wrong turns and inevitable misfortunes. He could see them in his mind, feel them hanging on the tip of his tongue; he could use them as a whisper when he nuzzled his face into Carlie, the brown dachshund that seemed to be the only living mammal that understood him; he could feel them like a silent warmth crawling up his spine. But saying them aloud to Maureen? Fuck no. Saying 'thank you' wasn't an option. Maybe if they were back in that tiny apartment on Hereford Avenue, where their mother would cook runny eggs while smoking Marlboro Lights and their Dad would saunter in wearing his blue rumpled uniform smelling like gasoline, Jim Beam and Molly Lynch's perfume, he could find a way. Molly lived three floors above the O'Connell family, which would explain why neighbors wondered why Mickey was heading down in the elevator several times a week. But never on Sunday. On the seventh day, Tim would clip on his little red and blue striped tie, Maureen would lace up her frilly pink dress, their Dad would comb his hair straight back, and Eileen, well, on Sundays, she smelled like cigarettes and Jim Beam, and everyone at St. Ignatius got a whiff as she received Communion. As mom and daughter received Communion. The O'Connell men left as spectators at the pew. Tim couldn't remember a time when Maureen wasn't leading the way, her brown pigtails bouncing ahead of him as she marched through life with unshakeable confidence. Two years younger, yet she'd always been the one to grab his hand when crossing the street, or to speak up when the lunch lady short-changed him, or to stand between him and their father's bourbon-fueled rages. Tim wanted to be the Big Brother, the prodigal son guiding his family out from the shadows. But he couldn't. Not really. Not the way she could. By the time Maureen was ten, she was balancing their mother's checkbook. At twelve, she was negotiating with bill collectors. At fourteen, she had broken many hearts, including Joe Flaherty's, Tim's best friend. And then there was the internship she turned into a VP role at the bank. It grated on him, this relentless competence. Each of Maureen's successes felt like a personal affront, small attacks, reminders that Tim was born under an unlucky star. He was supposed to be the protector, the one with all the answers. Instead, he was perpetually stumbling in his little sister's wake, struggling to keep up with her effortless stride through life. And now, at thirty-seven, with Maureen yet again coming to his rescue--this time with a spare room in her sleek downtown apartment after his latest job loss--Tim felt that familiar resentment bubbling up. It mixed toxically with the grudging gratitude he couldn't bring himself to voice, creating a cocktail of emotions that threatened to choke him every time he looked at her. How do you thank someone for saving your life when you resent them for having to do it in the first place? Their recent routine found Tim in the kitchen, stitching together some protein and starch; the least he could do was get dinner together before Maureen arrived home from work. As he cut the potatoes and browned the ground beef, he couldn't help but chuckle--he was only a head of cabbage away from recreating a staple from their childhood. Paper plates set on the table. Lids on the pots to keep the food warm. Pitcher of water filled to the brim. Tim put on the TV and waited for his sister to arrive. An episode and a half of Six Feet Under later, and still no Maureen. Hungry and annoyed, Tim made a lukewarm plate and retreated back to the couch. It was unlike her not to be in touch over the past few weeks, even on the nights she was clearly overworked and underwhelmed with her job. Did she tell him about some forced corporate dinner that he forgot about? Maybe a hair appointment or something? He had noticed the wings of her wispy hair turning gray. Tim passed out and dreamed his usual dream. The one where a man with big muscular arms was attacking his dad. It was always an unprovoked attack, and it always ended the same way: Tim's tiny fists feeling like flea bites on the back of the man who wished ill will on his dad. Or sometimes, the stab of a knife or shot from a gun is laughed off by the unknown assailant. Maureen was there, always. But she would be going about her business, oblivious to the ruckus the O'Connell men were embroiled in. It was 2:43am when the cell phone woke him. The hospital said something about an accident. Next thing Tim knew, he was standing in the waiting room at Bingham General clutching a paper cup filled with cold coffee. A doctor approaches wearing a grave expression, explaining that Maureen has been in a serious car accident. She's in rough shape but expected to recover fully. The gravity of it all crashes down on Tim. He internally commits to be there for it all. Cooking dinners, doing the laundry, driving Maureen to physical therapy, whatever she needs, he will do. Using actions instead of words to solve problems has always been the O'Connell way. But when Tim enters Maureen's hospital room and sees her lying there full of tubes; dried blood in her ponytail; a small, crooked apologetic smile on her face, he loses all control. It's not a sob, it's a hysterical cry, his body convulsing under the weight of decades of missed expectations. Yet he's grateful. So grateful. Maureen is alive. And the realization is piercing. Maureen is the one who kept him alive. He steadies his legs as he approaches the bed and sits on a small stool. Gently grabbing her cold, fragile hand, Tim says: "Thank you. For everything. You saved me." Her hand tightens around his as tears stream down her cheeks.


March 2021- The MC just finished summarizing the operation, calling it "The most successful infantry op of the 21st century" I'm the only man in the ballroom not wearing the Army Service Uniform. It's a small gathering, just a platoon, a small platoon of thrity men or so. The only reason why I was here is because of my job. I'm the MI liason for the CIA, providing key information to SF and Infantry units. I provided the information on this op, and I know now that I'll live to forget it. There was a silence, then a young corporal stood up and spoke. "To Lieutenant Morton! For his leadership got the job done, and kept us alive! To John!" The audience followed suit. "To John!" I raised my glass half-heartedly, knowing that I have ruined that man's life forever. The festivities began, and I stood up. I walked towards the officer's table. He was surrounded by his family, and the family of his late Platoon Sergeant. It's been almost fifteen years since I've seen John. He was my best friend through Junior high and high school years. I haven't spoken with him since we left for college. I got medically declined my third year of ROTC in college. He was commissioned top of his class at West Point, class of 2019. So I got a job at the CIA, serving and working as close to the army as I could, working as a mission spook. In a way, we were doing the same job, except I made two hundred thousand dollars a year versus his fifty-three. I tapped his shoulder. "John? John Morton?" I asked in confirmation of his name. "Yes" He replied. John didn't look like he was in his twenties at all. He had a long, jagged scar across his face, and mutliple pale patches of skin on his right hand, making the skin grafts noticable. His left hand, there was no left hand. A metal plastic prosthetic replaced his missing flesh. "Who are you?" He asked, looking at my face intently, like I looked familiar. "I'm Matthew Magee, the spook." Smiling afterwards. John excused himself from the table and walked with me to an empty table. "Matt! Damn! It's been years since we've talked. What's going on?" The man who had once been my best friend in school at been shot at, blasted at, and gave his right hand for his country, yet he was still lively and friendly as he was in school. My eyes watered as we talked about our lives. The family, the army life, spook life, and eventually the mission that we had just taken part of. There was a brief pause in the conversation. He then spoke. "Thanks for the info you gave us. You got most of us out of there alive--" A tear rolled down my eye. He stopped talking and asked me what was wrong. I pointed to his prosthetic. I blinked back my tears and cleared my throat. "John, the mines...." I paused. "I knew about them. I tried to tell your Platoon Sergeant, but I was cut off by radio security procedures. Then the mines went off." He put his left hand on my shoulder. He and shared tears that only combat veterans can share. Serving the country, the guilt of alternative service.


We did a Secret Santa Story Exchange on Discord, and these were the constraints given to me by u/Ragnulfr. I had a lot of fun writing this and hope you all enjoy it! Constraints: Includes: 1) A Kind Demon 2) Chamomile Tea 3) Teddy Bear 4) Fantasy 5) Realistic Fiction 6) Wholesome (!) Now, onto the story: Choron scratched the back of his neck, yawning, and waited for his tea to steep. Electric kettles... what lovely things they were, such ingenious human creations. He pulled a cup from the cupboard, cleaning it with a little snap of his fingers when he felt a tug in the middle of his chest. *Summoning.* Choron wasn’t an eight-hundred-year-old demon for nothing. He didn’t panic. He merely placed the tea back on the counter and let out a long string of expletives. *Wait, isn’t it Christmas-time?* A grin spread across his face. The tug grew insistent, and Choron cackled. “If it’s another human teenager around a damned Ouija board, I will eviscerate the lot of them, but not before I have some fun.” He organized his face into a scowl and allowed the tug to pull him to his summoner in a flash of light. Landing in the middle of the circle, he manifested sharp, gigantic antlers, hoofed feet, and a red-nose. By the time his vision cleared, he huffed a breath turned to run the fool through with the antlers-- There, in the corner of the room, sat a quivering ball of human child, legs pulled to her chest, arms covering head, face buried into a plush teddy bear resting on her knees. Gut-wrenching sobs echoed through the room and Choron straightened and allowed the deadly features to soften--the antlers lost their sharp edge, the red on the nose turned lighter. Even he wasn’t a monster who would raise a hand against a human child, especially one that looked too young to have performed the summoning. Wails and sobs echoed through the room and Choron looked around baffled for a moment. He watched the human child as she tried to console herself, deliberately stifling her sobs and tried to wipe away the tears in her eyes with the back of her palms. Leaving the child for the moment, he looked around the room, senses expanded--beige room, some kind of basement. There had been more humans there, all relatively young--teenagers, and here was the kicker, he hated human teenagers, who’s only goal was to irritate him with summonings on dares as though he were a dog. None of the children were here now, only the small child struggling to compose herself. They’d fled leaving one of their own in peril. What if he had been one of the crueler ones? He tried to take a step towards the child and a small pulse of lightning pulsed through him, inhibiting him from moving out. Runes, he noted as he breathed through the pain. The teenage brats were thorough teenage brats, he thought sourly. The sounds of crying had stopped for now. She lifted her head and watched him curiously with a tilted head. Slowly getting to her knees, she crawled to the edge of the circle, dragging the teddy behind, and plopped down on her behind and stared up at him, craning her neck at an angle that would surely hurt her later. Lowering himself to the ground, he wished he were home, getting ready to sleep, sipping on his tea, reading some ridiculous new book. The girl continued staring at him. “Are you hurt?” she asked, a finger slowly making its way to her mouth. He grimaced. “No, child. I’m not,” he replied. “You look like Rudolph. Are you really a demon?” she asked, seriously. "I am.” He grinned. The child grinned back. “My sister and her friends were meanies. You seem nice.” At those last words, her eyes welled up and she looked ready to burst into another set of sobs. “Now, now, don’t go crying again. Your sister and her friends were indeed mean, but there’s no need to cry about it. You can definitely get back at them later.” “I don’t want to be mean like them,” the words were almost a whine, and Choron sighed. Curse children and their stubborn kindness. No wonder they were so hard to corrupt, not that he would ever corrupt a child. “That’s okay, too,” he said, stretching his back and shaking out his fur. The child giggled. “Can you go back to wherever you came from? My mommy will be home soon.” “I can’t, little luv. The circle prevents me from leaving.” “Oh,” she whispered, dejected. “Should I break the circle?” “No!” The girl jumped at his exclamation, and he continued with a gentler tone, “breaking the circle would be bad for you and your sister.” “So, how do you go back home?” He glanced around the room and found no traces of a spell book. He sighed. They would have to do this the old-fashioned way; he was once again glad to be stuck with a child and not with grubby adults who wanted things. “You just have to say, go away, Choron, I don’t want you here, and that you’ll forget this ever happened when you wake up tomorrow.” “Will that be all? You’ll go away if I say that?” There were those curious eyes again. He nodded. She contemplated this with a frown. “Are all demons as friendly as you, Mr. Choron?” “No, luv. Some are just as scary as portrayed in the stories,” he replied with a slight smile. “I’m glad it’s you then. I’m gonna say the words now,” she took a deep breath and continued, “I hope you go home now, Mr. Choron. I don’t want you here. When I wake up, I’ll forget you and that this happened. Bye, Mr. Choron!” The words released his tethers to the mortal world as he knew they would. Choron vanished in a flash of white light, with a beaming smile and a ‘farewell, little one’, and gifting her with a mark of protection. When he opened his eyes, he was in the kitchen in his usual form and saw the oversteeped tea. He sighed as he took out some chamomile leaves and set to boil water again.