She woke up, in the middle of the night. She slowly reached out her hand to his side of the bed. His side was empty, and cold. I want to wake up and feel his warmth, and listen to his slow, regular breathing. Now there is silence, horrible, cold silence. I had hoped it was just a bad dream, but now I know it really has happened, and that I am now truly on my own. He used to say that rest is almost as good as sleep, so at least lying awake now will not make me feel too tired in the morning. He used to tell me such interesting things, and funny stories about other people. She felt a tear on her cheek. We had been so careful. We always wore our face masks when we went outdoors, and we only went outdoors when we really needed to. We had both developed the coronavirus cough, an unusual, dry cough. I had got over mine but his became worse, and he had difficulty breathing. Then he had to go into hospital, then he was in intensive care, and then the hospital telephoned. We had always known that, somehow or other, the dreadful day of parting would come, but nothing prepares you for when it actually happens. She tried to remember the good times. We were lucky with our children. They have all turned out well, and they often come to visit. Now I will need them more than ever. Our grandchildren are either at university or starting their careers, but there are no great grandchildren, yet. We worked hard with our children. Some people say that raising a family is twenty years of hard work and worry. I would say it is more like twenty five, but it is still worth it. Seeing our children develop into good, responsible adults always made us proud, and also made us feel that we had at last earned our place in society, where we were no longer taking, but somehow we were now giving something back. He had taught me that if you want to influence people, you have to encourage them in anything they want to do. This is because people always have doubts about doing anything new or different, and they will listen to whatever you say, and it is so useful to have this communication. We found that this is especially important with teenagers. He used to say that where youth sees opportunities, experience sees dangers, but it is no use telling teenagers what they should do, or not do, it just makes them more determined to do what they want. However, when they hear your encouragement, they will also listen when you ask, "Have you considered what will happen if..." and then they will realise possible dangers, and make changes which they think are their own ideas. We were late teenagers when we met, and how we talked. I felt as if we had known each other all our lives, and yet we still had so many interesting things to say. What a thrill it is to discover how someone else thinks. Afterwards I felt as if I were dancing on air. I would remember all the things both of us had said. Then I would think where we would go and what we would do next time, and what we would talk about. I spent hours imagining what I would tell him, and then what he would say to me. I would day dream, a young woman's simple ideas of marriage, a home, and children calling him Daddy. I would idly write his name, drawing pictures with his initials, and then join them to mine. I practiced writing what my married name would be. I would keep looking at the clock, unable to wait to see him next. Sometimes we would meet somewhere and be some distance apart, separated by many other people, and we would slowly look towards each other, and then suddenly turn away, with a big smile, when we saw that we were both looking at each other. Ha, that was such fun. I was in love, and I knew for sure that it really was love. We waited to get married until he had received his engineering degree. He later told me that when he first saw me, he knew that I would be his future wife. There were many temptations before we were married, but I am glad that neither of us had ever practised before our wedding night. It was so good, learning together, and putting it in its proper place by calling it "the pleasures of marriage". And what pleasure it was, when we both agreed, taking our time, each waiting until the other was ready, then watching him fall asleep afterwards, and laughing at how hungry it had made us both feel. We were free to do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted and however we wanted. And also wherever we wanted, sometimes outdoors in the sun, or on a deserted beach, in a field or by a stream, and then lying together, naked, in the warm sunshine afterwards. That gave us a feeling of triumph, that somehow we had gained some advantage over the rest of the world. Of course, over the years, our desires faded a little. My female hormones had been telling me to, "Have a child", but after three children the calling was less. I know that the male hormones are completely different. They continually say, "Strengthen the species through genetic variety." This makes the man subconsciously think, "That means mating with as many different women as possible." It was inevitable that he would meet other women, and compare them with me, especially if they were single, younger and perhaps more physically attractive. He told me about one women who had said, "Divorce your wife and marry me". He said he had realised that things would be different, but not necessarily better, and that leaving me would make me very unhappy, and if I were unhappy, our children would be unhappy, and so for him it would simply never be worth it. If we had divorced I would have to raise the children on my own, but it is not like a cat bringing up kittens. Humans have a complication. A girl needs a mother as a role model, and a father to show her what to look for in the man who will be the father of her children. She wants to have good babies, so she needs a good man to be the father. But how can she tell if a man is good or not ? Just because he looks like a pop star or has lots of money is no help. She needs to compare him with a man she knows, and the man she knows best is the one she has seen all her life, her father. She knows the good things about her father, especially how he treats his wife, and can use this for comparison. But without knowing her father, she cannot make any comparisons, and a few hours every other weekend, away from her mother, is hardly enough. If I were head of the government I would make a law that people could not divorce if there were children, under 18's, involved. Also, often a girl who has been raised without a father, will fall for the first man she meets, to get what she missed by not having a father to look up to. But people who marry to get something, rather than for giving or sharing, are rarely happy. This is why children of divorced parents often end up getting divorced themselves, and how divorce seems to go from one generation to the next. Similarly a boy needs a mother to see the sort of woman to marry, and a father as a role model. A boy raised without a father may find male leadership in a gang, where the gang leader takes the place of the father he should have been looking up to. A gang can be attractive for teaching a boy qualities such as loyalty and a code of honour, but which we women rarely feel as being important. If I were a single parent I could make sure that the children brushed their teeth and did their homework, but this hardly prepares them to become emotionally stable adults. All children need the security of their parents' marriage, and to know that their mother and father will always stay together. "We did well," she thought, "but I am going to miss him so much." We tried to avoid talking about one day being parted, although we gradually made plans, like arranging things in joint names. I was never as strong as him, and I told him that if he were left on his own, I would want him to marry again, as I didn't want him to be lonely for the rest of his life. Now it will be me who will miss the laughter, the jokes and the old songs we used to sing together. Our lives had become so joined together, mainly because of the children, and running the home. We still liked doing some things together, like holidays, but we had also developed our own separate interests. Yet we also depended on each other, more and more as the years went by. We had discovered who was best at doing what, just as I had seen with my parents. We assumed that we could always rely on each other to do these things. We shared our things, even our shoes, which were the same size, and our money of course, although most of that went into paying the bills and the mortgage. Will he and I meet again ? If you go to church you are supposed to believe that we will all be reunited in Heaven, but the priest at the graveside didn't sound as if he believed it. Churches have changed. People used to say that churches were unfriendly, just you and God, but in those days you could at least go there, take part in the service, and leave without anyone bothering you. Now they all try to be so friendly, and you have to endure everyone welcoming each other. But it isn't friendly at all. "Lovely to meet you. What's your name ? Where do you live ? What does your husband do ?" All they really want is to make sure that they are socially superior. Such hypocrites. "... and everyone please stay behind after the service for tea and biscuits." More probing questions. If I go to church I want answers, not questions. She finally fell asleep. In the morning she woke, and she felt the warm sun on her face.


The Peace Revivors were down to their last soldier, but anybody still alive would agree it was a lost cause. Even he himself knew that the hopeful were fools. It wasn’t the total anarchy that killed their leader, but the excessive pollution. The former leader, a strong woman from what used to be Australia, was weakened by her asthma and inability to breathe from the waste in the air that the wars had caused, ironically. How she survived so long with asthma while those with stronger lungs perished, those who believed in God may have said it was His work. But, if alive, they certainly don’t believe anymore. But he tried, if only to give him the strength to not lay in the open clearing, with lead fire raining upon it. Instead, he ran from the bullets, narrowly escaping into a dead woods, a cave nearby. He knew it was only a temporary rest. He knew full well that they would come for him soon. That he shouldn’t be in a cave with no other escape besides the one behind him, but he stayed nonetheless. As he sat against a cave wall, he sobbed quietly into his hands. Well, tried to. His tears wouldn’t even fall anymore; he was too dehydrated. Nevertheless, his chest heaved, his body ached, and his throat and eyes yearned for clean water that he hadn’t had in a very long time. He cursed God as he pulled his head up, looking at the ceiling, to find spikes, dripping filthy water down onto the cave floor. Upon further inspection, those weren’t spikes. And that wasn’t water. They were bodies, corpses somehow suspended by their throats, thick ropes hanging from the stone, wrapping around their necks like snakes. Blood came from open wounds on their skin; he knew some were recent. He turned his head away from the gruesome sight. He groaned in frustrating grief, wondering how many of his old teammates, friends, family were hanging from the top of the cave. “If they were killed by anyone but their own hand, they would be full of lead.” The sickening thought struck his brain like the bullets he wished would have pierced him in the field. He looked back up, but it looked a little different, as one may say. The sight before was truly sickening, yes, but this was infinitely more terrifying. They were no longer lifeless, not even emotionally; far from it. They were grinning, bright, blue eyes boring into his cold, dead ones, bloodshot from lack of sleep and hydration. “Come die with us.” It sounded like a thousand voices, and yet none of their mouths moved. They just kept staring, grinning, almost cartoonishly. “I... Can’t.” He croaked. He hadn’t spoken in a while; his voice came out hoarse. “I have responsibilities, a world to save.” He knew that was a lie, the world was taken long ago. The animals were dead, and the plants were brown and dry. Deserts littered what used to be rainforests. He swallowed, his throat looking for something, anything to relieve the pain it felt. None was given; it felt like he was swallowing sand, the taste of metal between his cheeks. Never moved, their pupils turned into black birds, flying from their widening eyes, like the silhouettes of fowl, free against the sun and beautiful, blue sky he missed so much. They darted between trees, soaring almost idly, like it was something they’ve always done. Like something they’ll always do. The voices spoke again, this time sounding much more soothing, like a mother’s heartbeat against her newborn’s ear. It was water against his parched throat. “Come fly with us.


(Name of the story and of name of the story chapter are inspired by Three Days Grace and their album Human) In the distant space, among stars, floated trough space one gigantic space ship. Those inside it evacuated their former planet of origin. Why they left you might ask yourself. They asked themselves the same question, but the truth only remained hidden, generation after generation, none knew the reason. These beings on this ship lived up to around 100-150 earth years. And only the first generation of them knew why they evacuated. After many thousands of years, these beings, they lived in a "cage". Leaders and commanders of this ship were in cryonics chambers, but, their thoughts, their whole brains were recorded. This way if they want to tell something, they could. One day, at year 862 by the calendar of "The new rebirth", a boy was born. The part of the ship he was born at was where every poor families would come. His family was no exception, they were poor too, but when the boy was born, they were full of happiness. Boy's name, was Yiro. Yiro enjoyed playing with broken robots that were thrown away, also he lived pretty much close to the main junkyard where he could find some crazy robots. He loved to play with them in a way that few of them started working again, one of those robots that started working had some type of AI inside of it. When he found that out, Yiro immediately looked at robot's left foot. "The date, where is the date" -He said in panic as he was trying to clean of some rust and dust from robot's foot. When he found the date, it said 295. He was shocked, he never thought that he would find something this old. But there was also one strange rule here, everything found that was made before 600 NR needed to be reported to the main sheriff of the town. He could not do it, so he hid the robot and he named it Furui. Yiro and Furui played every day, together. Until one day, they wandered away from their parents' property. They accidentally entered land owned by the head sheriff. That sheriff was impatient man, he was very angry person. When he was Yiro and Furui enter his property, he grabbed them both. He threw Furui to the ground and he saw the label on Furui's foot. Sheriff put both of them to his car and he drove them to the station, he planned to put Yiro to the children's care center and his parents inside the prison. But to everyone's suprise, Furui, a small robot with old AI installed in it corrupted the main communication network. Sheriff tried to destroy it, but it was too late. Furui already installed a virus inside other robots that were used like police officers. Robots attacked the sheriff and other human officers. Pure chaos at the station. Yiro and Furui escaped, they ran and ran to their parents house. But when they came, they saw many officers there, they shot his parents already. Somehow, they knew about this even tough Furui corrupted the network. It was too late, they could do nothing now. When police saw them, they started chasing them, the duo (Furui and Yiro for short) lured the police away from their house. They waited till the night at nearby farm. Police later put their guard down and the duo went in trough the window, they packed most essentials, food, water, and other robots Yiro found. After the sneak in, they went inside the secret passage hidden inside Yiro's room. Passage went underground to the junkyard. After arriving at the junkyard, they had to make something for transportation. Furui had a great idea, they would collect parts of other broken robots, and they would make a "car". They got tires, seats, motors, electronics, everything they needed. Yiro was in charge of screwing things in and Furui was the designer. After hours of work, they made something. A "car" you could call it. They sat inside and they went to a secret place very far away, 50 miles atleast. That place was his dad's small junkyard, a workplace, where he made tons of things but never revealed them. Only Yiro knew where that place was. Duo drove there, they made a camp there. Yiro put some oxygen motors that could convert oxygen into energy. His dad made that device, but he knew that making something like that would put him into jail so he kept it secret. On the outside, that junkyard looked normal, but it had underground basement which was much bigger than the outside. Yiro and Furui spent few days there making devices and planning for the future. End of chapter 1. Please point out some mistakes, or suggest me what could I do to make this better. IMO I think I could have made this a lot better, but it is what it is. I am open to ideas, suggestions and critics! Thank you for reading.


A wave of fog gently crashed onto the cobblestone streets of Cortland, New Hampshire. The weather had just begun to turn towards autumn and the inhabitants of the tiny town were tucked into bed. The brick road beneath a flickering streetlight subtly changed color from orange to gray and back again, over and over with no discernible pattern. It was the dead of night yet a single figure lumbered down the middle of the street. The silhouette was tall but not wide. They were built like a wire hanger ripped from its functional shape. They even bent haphazardly to the left as if their profile had been snapped over someone’s knee. A slight wave at the edges of the figure revealed baggy clothing. No sound came from them, not even the echoes of their feet against the ground. The figure finally lurched into the blinking light and more details became clear. He was a man. Was being the operative word as he was clearly dead. His skin glowed a sickly, greenish-white with the texture of slightly melted Play-Doh. He was mostly bald but it was unclear how much of that occurred during his life versus after his death. His clothing, which he was assumedly buried in, was caked with fresh dirt. The man stared up at the lamp with unblinking eyes. It seemed as if he was trying to absorb as much radiation as he could from the quivering light. He reached into his open shirt and fingered a long, diagonal wound running along his chest. The slash was closed with the precise stitches only a trained hand could make. However, some of the stitches had broken, opening a window into the man’s hollow chest. After a few minutes, the light flickered to blackness and the dead kept walking. If one were to witness the man, well they would likely run away screaming. But if they were able to keep their composure long enough to study his movement, they would see something very odd. The man’s face was a mask that showed no sign of expression, yet his body language was that of a prisoner. He trudged along as if being pushed; moving in quick increments only to slow to a crawl and then stumble forward once again. At times it also seemed like he was being pulled. His body leaned forward into a dangerously unbalanced position and moved with small, shuffling steps. As far as an average person could see, there was nothing in front of or behind him. The push and pull of the dead man stopped again when he was much further down the road. He was far past the village now and surrounded by the forest’s coarse hair of pine trees. A fog soaked winded turned the man towards a drainage ditch. Even through the haze, the dead stared pointedly at one spot in front of him. The glaze on his eyes dissolved and two black pupils circled by maple rings became clear. He blinked for the first time since death. Another gust of wind blew the fog from the ditch and for a few moments, it was not immediately replaced by more. At the bottom of the slope was a bundle of pictures, flowers, cards, and stuffed animals. The pictures captured the luminous smile of an elementary-age girl. The man lurched forward and seemed to take in the light of her smile in the same way he took in the lamp’s energy. Most of the cards had lost all legibility to the weather, but a dry patch on one revealed a single phrase. “We’re Praying for You!” A deeply unnatural sound emanated from the man upon seeing this. A boiling broth gurgle in his throat like bile being emptied from a stomach. The sound had an indescribable tone of sadness to it. The trees were the only ones listening, however, and they showed no remorse for the depressed. The gurgling ceased and a blanket of fog was once again laid over the bundle. The man scratched at his wound again, tearing open several more stitches. Instead of continuing down the road, the dead slid into the ditch and climbed back out the other side, entering the looming forest. His eyes remained human as he navigated his way through the puzzle of pines. There was a new sense of purpose to the way he moved. He stood mostly straight and no longer constantly changed speeds. Something from that bundle had embedded itself into the dead matter of his brain. From a distance, one may have even mistaken him for the living. At times it seemed like there was a force trying to pull him away from his destination. He would suddenly jerk to the side, or his leg would become stuck mid-step. The man fought through these battles until he passed the barrier of the tree line. From then on, he was undisturbed in his quest. A strong north wind blew the smell of burning wood into his nose. It was only then that he realized he could smell again. In front of him was a grassy valley. At the bottom of the valley was a wooden cabin with small puffs of smoke exhaling from its chimney. The man tumbled down the hill, soundlessly. He landed only a few feet from the inhabitants’ chocolate Labrador. The dog tilted its head but made no sound. It only watched as the dead attempted to get up. The creature somehow knew that he was no threat. The man rose like a broken Jack exploding from his box in slow motion. Parts of his body that weren’t meant to hang, hung, Parts that weren’t meant to be stiff, hardened. One of his legs had become permanently straightened. He could now only move by pivoting. The dead traversed the circumference of the house in small, half-circles until he was in front of a window on the opposite side. Cozy, orange light glistening on the glass beckoned the man forward. As he grew closer, he could see inside the room. The girl from the photos slept on the bed. A tube running from her arm led to a stalwart IV stand next to her bed. There was an arrangement of chairs facing the girl, implying frequent visitors who needed somewhere to sit as they cared for and cooed after her. A pink blanket, with a unicorn emblazoned on the front, covered the girl up to her waist. Above that she wore a gray knit shirt that covered the majority of a long, crooked scar running along her chest. The dead man couldn’t look away. He reached again for his wound, parallel to hers, but this time his fingers came away wet. The scarlet stick of blood was unmistakable, and it was oozing from his chest. His fingers were no longer the gray-green of death. He refocused on his reflection in the window and saw the face that had died a few weeks ago. His skin had regained its life. His lips were once again rosy. Even his thick, black hair had returned. All he was missing was a heart. That rested just past the window, under a unicorn blanket, inside the chest of the girl he almost killed. The cavity inside his chest was flooded with molten guilt that blistered his lungs and burnt his ribs. Memories popped into his mind like firecrackers. The bachelor party, the bouncer he fought for his keys, the blinding light refracted through the windshield. After that was darkness for him, but his own memories were not the only ones drifting through his mind. He became a father waking up with his car in a drainage ditch, finding his little girl ten feet away with her chest caved in. He became a mother paralyzed by fear after receiving the worst call of her life in the dead of night. He became a doctor carving open a chest, his chest, to retrieve a still viable heart. He finally became the girl herself, floating in and out of consciousness for days as her body tried to kill the foreign organ behind her ribs. The dead man felt like Atlas holding up the grief of the world. But he was not a Titan. He collapsed under the weight and sunk into the dew-covered grass. The man knew that he was not truly alive again. There is a feeling to life that no living thing can discern because they haven’t had experiences without it. This man knew that feeling and he knew he didn’t have it. It was like being carried to bed as a child, rediscovering a memory of a late loved one, or realizing happiness in the moment and choosing to savor it. Even those were only partial definitions. In truth, even though many have tried, life is indescribable. The man felt his body giving way, not into the dead form he was before, but into the earth itself. He was sinking. Not to Hell or anything that easy. He was being pulled in to be used again. The idea of renewed life in many forms satisfied the man deeply in his final moments. Just like the idea that his love would remain on Earth in the heart of a young girl.


The hospital is packed. On one end of the building, the hospital has cordoned off a section to allow recovered patients to donate plasma. The opposite annex houses the pathology lab for testing. Thousands of people pour in on both of these wings, meaning the ground floor is constantly a swarm of people filtering in and out. As the warnings to wear masks, stay home and socially distance go unheeded, the number of cases are on an exponential rise. It is no wonder that the health systems are struggling to cope. As a result, the hospitals are taking in more patients than they can accommodate - and have become home to several well-meaning family members who insist on visiting despite the health risks. Dr. Song, however, is operating on a loophole. As a doctor employed here, he isn’t violating any health codes by being present in the hospital. However, as a plastic surgeon with fewer than 3 (minor) surgeries in a day, he isn’t actually needed on-call either. He claims he uses his hospital privileges to volunteer on the sixth floor of one of the many newly converted COVID-19 wards and help lighten the load. Coincidentally, two of his family members are currently admitted to a room on that floor. Right now, he is rushing into the pathology wing, taking a shortcut through the plasma donation center, to check the results on his family’s most recent blood test. The blood had been collected a few hours before he had entered the hospital premises, and he wants to request the lab technician to analyze the sample from Room 615 urgently. He is nearly out the door, when he hears a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Ms. Rebecca Singh? You left your purse on counter 4.’ Somehow the impact of distant memories flooding his head causes him to stop in his tracks. He has vague recollections of his childhood home and friends but unable to place exactly when he knew that name. Why does it feel so impossibly familiar? However, he does not have to wonder for long because his mental fog clears the moment she enters the room. The moment their eyes lock, he is transported back to 1983. In a flash, he can feel the hormones rush back into his 54 year old body as if he was 17 again. They were standing over his parent’s balcony when he first dared to cover her hand with his, his heart hammering against his barely-pubescent chest. She had pulled her hand away, slowly. Carefully, she extracted it from his grip. Though she continued to focus her stare directly beyond the balcony, over the horizon, he let his gaze drop for a moment to look at her hand. She was softly wiping it on the front of her dress. She was being kind, trying not to hurt him. She was trying to be as gracious as possible about his unwelcome advance.He could feel his heart sink to the deepest pits of his stomach, his cheeks burning red. He turns his gaze away from her, towards the peeling wall, wishing he had never invited her to study in the first place. ‘Rebecca, hi.’ Ms Singh, who has clearly returned in search of her purse, drops her gaze to his hand to see if he had it. When over his shoulder, she spots her purse. She breaks into an awkward smile as she prepares to cut around him to pick up her forgotten bag. At that moment, the doctor makes a (somewhat) calculated decision to pull down his mask for a brief second. In her surprise, she pauses. ‘It’s Robert... Robert Song. From Sainsbury High School...’ Then, suddenly, he felt a light brush against his fingers. He turned his head so fast, he got whiplash from his hair. Her hand hovered ominously close to his, palm up. Her gaze is still fixed in the far distance, but she had a shy smile teasing the corners of her lips. He thought he saw her eyes dart towards him peripherally, but they shifted back forward so fast that it could have been his imagination. Slowly - even though his whole body felt alive with nervous energy - he inched his hand closer to hers. He placed his palm atop hers, and immediately she intertwined their fingers. Recognition floods her eyes, as she stares at him in awe. ‘Oh my God! Robert!’ She remembers him, and for some reason this brings a giddy smile to his lips. The warmth of his smile extends to his voice. ‘It’s so good to see you - you haven’t changed at all!’ ‘Flatterer!’ she says with a tone of surprise. Even though she runs a hand to smooth over her greying hair, a blush creeps across her cheeks. ‘How - I mean, what are you doing here?’ He must have eaten fireworks for lunch that day, because his stomach felt like an explosion. Yet, the only thing he could process was the sensation of her hand in his. He felt electric currents wherever his skin met hers. His heart was beating faster than ever and he could feel her pulse match his. They must have spent hours there, hand in hand, experimenting with pressure and strokes. Dr Song glances down at his white coat, ‘I work here. 16 years now.’ Her smile is warm and genuine. ‘A doctor, of course’ She chuckles, ‘Your father must be pleased, I remember that’s what he had wanted.’ He waited on the floor of her bedroom as she put finishing touches on her hair. He was impatient to see her, and hold her. He kept trying to peer into her bathroom, but was keenly aware that her father was carefully pacing right outside her open (as was strictly instructed) door. The wait felt like agony - each cell in his body felt like tiny magnets being pulled towards her. Yet he had to wait until she was ready, and safely in the front seat of his old beat-up sedan. While he waited, his stomachs turned to knots at the anxiety of being apart. Over the months following the first time they held hands, the touch evolved to hugs and pecks on the cheeks, and then on the lips and beyond. They had become inseparable. Every waking moment was spent lost in each other’s thoughts, or in each other’s eyes. Together they felt invincible. Their love burned bright and hot, and it was easy for the world to fall apart when they were alone. He was just about to get up and poke his head into the bathroom, when her father walked in. They exchanged general pleasantries. In contrast with his father’s relationship with Rebecca, her father was usually friendly. They talked a little about some game that had recently transpired, and then Mr Singh asked what Robert’s plans were after highschool. Aiming to impress, Robert rattled off a section of his college essay to Mr Singh explaining how he wanted to study pre-med to become a doctor like his own father. Mid-conversation, Rebecca finally stepped out, glowing with her big coiffed hair and glossy lips. She jokingly reprimanded her father for interrogating her boyfriend (a word that still caused somersaults in Rob’s stomach) and then held out her hand to leave. He laughs back, awkwardly, ‘Yeah, I suppose. What about you?’ ‘Oh, I’m in real estate! Let me give you my card -’ She reaches near her hip where her purse would hang and laughs out loud again. ‘Oh, right. My purse - I should... I left it on the counter. Let me just go get it.’ He hears her words but doesn't quite comprehend them. Instead, he stands there, transfixed. Rebecca Singh, whom he had known and loved at the tender age of 17 going on 18. They had lost touch so long ago. There is so much he wants to ask her - there is so much he could say. The woman in front of him is one he knew better than anyone else, and yet is a complete stranger now. He is grateful for his mask, which hides his attempts to find the words to say something to her. All he knows is that he doesn’t quite want the conversation to end just yet. He doesn’t want her to leave just yet. ‘My purse?’ She tries again. Her voice breaks his trance, and he is pulled back into reality. ‘Right, yes! Please -’ Robert says, as he steps out of her way. He is angry - seething - as he blocks her path. He refused to let her go without finishing their conversation first, and he let her know this. Some part of him must have known that he was aggravating the situation, but he was hurting. Anger was much easier to express than vulnerability. He was afraid of losing her. Sadly, his attempts to keep her close only drove her further away. Then, of course, as quickly as it had started, the romance had run its course. It appeared that they argued more than they spoke, fought more than they kissed and spent more time apart than together. Like caramel heated beyond its burning point, what was once sweet began to taste bitter. One particularly vicious fight, two nights before their senior prom, resulted in a break-up. Words were said that they did not quite mean, but it was already too late to take back. Robert is waiting by the door as she returns. She holds up her purse at him as she crosses over. He holds the door open for her. As they stand at the reception area, they have both suddenly gone quiet. Rebecca looks down at her purse, fiddling at the strap. ‘Well, I should go.’ ‘It was lovely meeting you again.’ ‘Yes, you too.’ The moment hangs and he wishes he could give her a hug. Anything, to mark this strange moment, to give it an appropriate sense of closure. However, even without the pandemic, he feels that perhaps it would not have been possible. He moves to offer her a hand to shake, and realizes that too is not a sensible option. In the end, he raises his hand to give her a short wave. She smiles and responds in kind. Then, she turns to walk away. They both had taken different dates to the dance. Her date was quite a bore and wanted to sit at the table and joke with friends instead of dancing. His date wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest - she wanted to remain in perpetual motion. Still, they made a real show of having fun even though they felt miserable inside. They spent the whole evening looking over their shoulder at each other. What should have been a warm and happy memory became tainted with jealousy and rage. He had tried to talk to her once that night, but she purposely turned away when she saw him. It felt like a knife to his gut. Filled with wounded pride, he responded by declaring war on her. The last few months in school, spread some unkind rumours about her. She was strong, and denied them. He felt awed and angry, in unison, at her calm and grace. Then, with graduation, they went their separate paths and managed to avoid crossing them... until now. ‘Wait!’ Rebecca stops as Robert calls after her. ‘Sorry, I just never asked. What brings you to the hospital?’ Rebecca looks down, then sighs, ‘I had come to donate plasma - we recently recovered from the virus. I wanted to do what I could to those who were still suffering...’ Robert takes a deep breath. He knows better than to ask who the other part of ‘we’ was. He can feel the rush fade, and all at once he feels very much his current age. Coming out of this sudden, unexpected rollercoaster tires him out. He can feel the years that separates Dr Song from the 17 year old Robert who passionately loved Rebecca the way only a teenager can. The emotions were wild and fierce, and as invigorating as it was destructive. He has experienced a lot since then, and changed even more. ‘I’m glad you’re better Rebecca. It really was lovely to run into you after so long.’ This time he fishes out his card and hands it to her. ‘If you ever need any cosmetic work done, give me a call. I better get going too. Take care.’ With that, they part ways again. He feels a weight lift off his shoulders. It is as if some latent guilt he had been carrying about his behaviours in the past dissipates. He isn’t that Robert any more. As he watches her leave, so do the residual feelings or chemistry or sparks. He doesn’t love Rebecca any more. He has known this for a long time, and he chuckles at the visceral reaction that made him question it momentarily. As he tries to clear his daze, Dr Song finally reaches the pathologist’s room where he has come to find out about his wife and son’s health.


“Well, fuck you in the eye with a skewer then,” Jane quietly muttered. Whether her comment was heard or not wasn’t totally apparent, but the conversation continued. “I’m just reminding you that it’s always been this way. Every being has a purpose and this is yours. We all have to come to terms with our lot in life, although you do seem to have more trouble than most accepting this.” The priestess looked at Jane for what seemed like a long time, and then when there was no response, she went on. “You can call it Fate, or Destiny, or whatever you wish, but it is the will of the Gods and it cannot be changed. The Gods can be harsh but they can also be kind. Remember that everything we have, we have only because they have provided it, so we can not, we MUST NOT go against their will. Some would tell you that your place in the grand scheme of things is actually quite an honour, you know, “ the priestess patiently, and not unkindly, replied. Jane had heard the news earlier that day, and come to the hut of the priestesses for... guidance? Advice? Maybe a glimmer of hope or even a hint at another way? “I understand how it all works, I really do. Yes, I’ve heard it my whole life, but I just can’t wrap my head around it. I am not trying to ruffle anyone’s feathers, I just don’t understand why you have this life and I have a different life, and other races have other lives and our purposes are all so defined but also so different... Who decided it all, and why? I just don’t believe that this could possibly be everything there is...” The priestess let out an exasperated sigh. “It is the will of the Gods, my dear, and that is ABSOLUTE. Of course it is not entirely unusual to have misgivings in your position, and especially the closer you get to your time, to feel at least some measure of fear. The sacrifice is a great thing, but it can be frightening. However, you must accept it anyway. Continue to meditate on the very important part that you will play, and remind yourself that it is for the good of the whole flock. If nothing else, try to find some comfort in knowing that not only is this all necessary to keep our entire universe in balance, but also it is widely accepted that through this act, you will have earned a very exalted place in paradise.” Jane kicked and scratched at the ground nervously, unable to truly articulate what she was feeling. She knew she shouldn’t be arguing, and that so many others before her had gone through the same thing with acceptance, sometimes even with dignity, but to her it just all felt so wrong. Maybe she was just afraid, but she just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that her whole existence came down to this one thing and one thing only. She walked back across the dirty street to the hut that she shared with others who would share the same fate, some at dawn, (as she was), and some another day. She knew that her life had not been unpleasant. She had a warm place to sleep, plenty of food to eat, lots of friends around. She spent her days strolling about in the sunshine, talking with her friends, looking for something to do. Every now and then some new cock of the walk would come through and maybe provide an exciting distraction for a time. She could do what she liked for the most part, nothing was really prohibited and nothing was really expected of her. But if, from the moment of your birth, your fate was decided for you, do you really ever have free will? She had never lived anywhere else and she knew that each race had a purpose, all of which were decided by the Gods. She had known her purpose for as long as she could remember - this was not a new idea or a shock to hear about it. She had never known anything else. She was born and raised to eventually become sustenance for the Gods. Nothing else mattered. Still, her stubborn inner voice whispered, what if? What if there was a way to escape your fate? What if there was a way to just ESCAPE? She knew there just had to be more out there somewhere. Sometimes she snuck out at night and sat on the roof of the hut to watch the sun rise and she could see that the horizon went on way beyond their borders. It seemed to go on forever. She often wondered if there were other races, other whole worlds or even other Gods out there? She had asked a priestess this once and was told, not for the first (or the last) time, that it was very dangerous to daydream about such things. And even if there were other Gods and other worlds, they could be so very much worse. Out of the frying pan and into the fire as the saying went. It was better to just accept and enjoy what the Gods have given you for as long as you could. Maybe life being so short was part of what made it so precious. There was some wisdom on the priestess’s words, but still...? What if? That damned inner voice would not give up. She walked past her hut and just kept walking. Soon she was past her hut and long past the priestesses’ hut, and to the green space on the edge of the village. She walked through the grass, thinking for a moment of how cool the grass was on her feet, and how nice it might be to stop and sit and listen to the quiet of the evening, maybe poke her toes around in the grass and disturb a few insects and watch them scurry or slither for a while. Her thoughts roamed. The Gods came through her small village at dawn every day, sometimes there was one of them, sometimes more. They would stop first in the hut of the priestesses with their baskets to receive their offerings. Then they provided the day’s food to all. Other than that, there had been no real contact. Where did they go? Were there other villages with other purposes? She could not stop thinking about whether it was possible to escape her fate. If she accepted with grace and dignity, as hundreds (thousands?) before her had, then in the morning, she would be sacrificed. The gods would kill her and they would eat her flesh. So she kept walking. Soon she was further away from the huts then she ever went. With every step her inner voice repeated what if. Soon she wasn’t really thinking at all, it was just step, step, step, step, what if what if what if what if. She kept walking. Soon she was feeling the creeping cold of the night. She shrugged it off and kept walking. At some point, it dawned on her that if she kept going, she had no idea how to find food or shelter or care for herself. She decided she didn’t care and she kept walking. She had no idea how much time passed. Suddenly, she fell back with a startled gasp as she realized she’d run into something. She backed up and squinted. Wire? She eyed it slowly. She looked to her right and then left. Some sort of wire mesh that seemed to extend for miles, and was higher than her eyes could focus in the dark. She saw that there was a gap in the bottom between the mesh and the dirt so she scrunched down as low as she could and wriggled under. There was a point when she thought it might be too tight but she forced her way through and with barely a scratch or two realized she was on the other side. She saw a thicket not far away and felt the exhaustion inside her screaming at her to stop, even just for a few minutes. She had never really experienced the darkness so it was easy to convince herself how much she needed to rest for a time. She got down low and maneuvered herself into a well hidden spot in the dense foliage and closed her eyes. * * * * * * “Here she is!” Jane was startled awake by a shrill voice and a very large shadow looming over her. Before she had shaken the sleep away, a God reached into the bush and wrapped her within its massive hands. Jane could do nothing except let out one scared little squawk. She was walked past her village, where, from the dizzying height of the God’s hands, she could see her friends waiting for their daily rations and watching her go by with their eyes wide. The God who carried her passed her to another one, who seemed to be twice the size of the first. It took her by the feet and swinging her upside down, slammed her down onto a wooden block. It happened too fast for her to be anything but stunned. The God raised a stick with something on the end that glinted in the morning sunlight. She felt a sense of awe come over her. As the axe came down, her last thought was, “It is the will of the Gods.”


The silver armor of the approaching order of knights gleams with menace as they advance toward King Quentin Kaloric’s castle. Four knights detach themselves from the order, their metal shoes clanking loudly as they cross the drawbridge. Still standing at attention outside of the castle, their battle flags flying, the figures of the other hundred knights appear to fade into the moonlit night. Despite the warmth of his oversized robe, King Quentin shivers as he watches the four knights get closer, their metal shoes leaving a trail of blood. “They must be stopped,” King Quentin says. Julian Hammersmith, the King’s chancellor, smiles confidently, his pointy features giving him a wily appearance. “My best men are at the gate. They will cut them down like barley.” The silver knights march up to the gate. Eight of the King’s guards descend upon them, but they are cut to ribbons in a matter of seconds. The sliver knights march through the locked gate. Sitting on his throne, the diminutive fifteen-year-old king squeezes his jeweled scepter, hoping he won’t have to use it to protect himself. “Like barley, eh, counselor?” “They walked right through the gate as if they were invisible, leaving nothing but the torn bodies of the guards, and a trail of bloody footprints. They are obviously enchanted, or some sort of devils.” “Or ghosts,” King Quentin says. Quentin Kaloric has been King of Zaragoza for five tumultuous years, having ascended to the throne following the death of his beloved father, King Justin. Many of his countrymen felt Quentin was too young, too inexperienced, and too skittish to rule. They supported his uncle, Prince Thomas Blessing, as the rightful ruler. Quentin and his supporters acted quickly, executing his detractors as rebels, and imprisoning Blessing’s family. Quentin went on to sanction several unpopular wars against Tortosa and the much larger province of Kirwan, which have served to isolate Zaragoza and crippled its economy. A former soldier who attained his position through guile and the untimely deaths of his rivals, forty-six-year-old Julian Hammersmith has been at King Quentin’s side serving as his advisor for the duration of his reign, guiding him, some say, by the nose. The loud clamor of the silver knights marching down the hallway draws closer. The dozen guards summoned by Chancellor Hammersmith to protect the king timidly draw their swords. The knights march into the throne room, marring the stone floor with bloody footprints. Standing side by side, they draw their swords, pointing them at King Quentin. “They are acting the way they did the last time they appeared,” King Quentin notes. “Let us hope it stays that way.” They watch as the knights’ bodies begin to fade away and disappear. “They are our men, yet they threaten us,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “I wonder what they want?” “Me,” King Quentin sniffles, struggling to hold back his tears. Magnus, Zaragoza’s most revered sorcerer, bows to the king. “The past five years have been kind to you, Magnus,” King Quentin says. “You look exactly the same. Not even a grey hair and you still carry the same air of mystery in your indigo eyes. Perhaps it is the freedom of not having a wife or children that brightens your appearance.” “My wife and daughter were killed by your soldiers. That did not serve to improve my health.” Chancellor Hammersmith leans over the sorcerer like a vulture circling its prey, his eyes lifeless and uncaring. “Yes, you look incredibly well for a man of what, a hundred and fifty? Have you forgotten we spared your life? A few more comments like that and you will not see a hundred and fifty-one.” “We have all lost loved ones in the struggle between myself and my uncle for the throne,” King Quentin says. “But that time is past us.” “As I told your emissary, your majesty, I have ceased practicing my former profession.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s sharp features knot together as if he’s tasted something sour. “You willingly served the six kings who sat on the throne prior to King Quentin.” “Which I hope has earned me the right to have a long rest, and to refuse your request.” “I understand that you agreed to leave court because you believed my uncle was the rightful ruler....” “Who was proven to be a traitor to Zaragoza,” Chancellor Hammersmith says, intervening. “He wanted to form an alliance with our enemies, the Valencians. When his treachery was revealed, he fled, joining them.” “And now we are at war with Valencia,” Magnus replies. “And we are losing. Our soldiers on the front are dying from hunger and disease, while others have thrown down their weapons and deserted.” A pop-eyed King Quentin looks to Chancellor Hammersmith for an explanation. “Is what he says true?” “Of course not, your majesty. Our troops are massing for a decisive offensive as we speak. But you were not summoned to spread political lies, sorcerer. Your task is to rid the castle of spirits.” “Your messenger said there are at least ten of them.” The king anxiously leans forward on his throne, his oversized crown slipping over his eyes. “Yes, four knights, two noblemen, and a woman with a baby.” “You fear a woman and a baby?” Magnus asks. “It is obvious they mean your king great harm,” Chancellor Hammersmith retorts. “Have they appeared before?” “Every night for the past two weeks. Their forms seem to linger a bit longer each time they appear.” “I will rid you or your apparitions for twelve hundred gold pieces.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s pasty face reddens. “That is robbery!” “You can always try to exorcise them yourself, Chancellor.” “I am losing sleep as well as my sanity,” King Quentin whimpers. “I cannot stand it another night. We will meet your price.” “I will need an assistant. Someone who is familiar with herbs, perhaps a cook or a scullery maid.” Chancellor Hammersmith is about to argue when King Quentin raises his hand, saying, “Fine. But you must begin immediately.” Chancellor Hammersmith smiles maliciously. “And if you fail, sorcerer, I will use your severed head to scare the spirits away.” Magnus and Opal, his assistant, lean over the castle’s turret, watching the troop of silver knights approach the castle. The raven-haired, eighteen-year-old maid’s violet eyes widen. “Why do they leave bloody tracks behind themselves?” “Perhaps it is a sign of guilt; not necessarily their own. We need to go to the throne room in order to put their souls to rest. Did you mix the herbs together as instructed?” “Yes,” she says, showing him a pouch. “Good. Our lives depend on the strength of our magic.” A horrified King Quentin slumps in his seat as the silver knights enter the throne room leaving behind them a gory, blood-stained trail. Raising their swords, they point them at King Quentin. The king’s trumpeters fidget nearby, inching away from the throne. “I ultionem habebo,” says the first knight. Magnus translates: “He speaks in an ancient tongue used by the Badajoz, who inhabit the farthest realms of the kingdom.” “What did he say?” King Quentin asks. “I will have my vengeance.” Turning to his assistant, he says, “Now, Opal.” “Are you certain they will not hurt me?” “I have cast a spell on them. They cannot see you.” Opening the pouch, Opal draws a line in front of the knights in white powder. “What is that?” King Quentin asks. “The powder will provide a barrier to keep you safe. The apparitions cannot move beyond that line.” Tuning to the King’s trumpeters, Magnus instructs them to begin playing a funeral march. Magnus and Opal salute the knights. Magnus says, “You fought for your king and your country. You sacrificed yourselves so that others could remain free. Your service is at an end. We will remember and celebrate your courageousness for all time.” Chancellor Hammersmith, his expression riddled with doubt, remains still. “This will not work if you do not follow my instructions,” Magnus says. Groaning, Chancellor Hammersmith salutes the knights. Sheathing their swords, the knights return the salute. “...I can’t...,” King Quentin says, his body shaking. “You must, or they will continue to haunt your castle.” Chancellor Hammersmith hands King Quentin a sword. King Quentin’s knees knock together as he walks toward the knights. The knights drop to a knee. Raising his sword, King Quentin says, “You men are heroes of our realm. Every citizen of Zaragoza owes you a debt of gratitude for the ultimate sacrifice you made to protect us. I dub thee The Duke of Virtue, The Duke of Wisdom, The Duke of Courage, and the Duke of Fortitude.” King Quentin backs away as the four knights rise. Saluting, the knights disappear. Shivering as he stands in the courtyard, King Quentin pulls his massive robe around his boyish body. “Can you feel their presence?” he asks. “All I feel is the chill of a fall night,” Chancellor Hammersmith snipes. Opal tightens her grip around the pouch as the figures of two men begin to coalesce. The two noblemen are well-dressed, wearing colorful jackets with hose, leggings, and breeches. They hold their heads in the crooks of their arms. The bearded men cackle at King Quentin. “Fop,” says the first one. “Fool,” says the second. The second nobleman throws his head at the petrified king, who reacts by catching it. Looking down at the laughing head, King Quentin faints. King Quentin falls backward, flopping onto the dusty ground. Chancellor Hammersmith grabs the head as its launched in the air. He angrily tosses it back at the decapitated nobleman, who deftly catches it. “Now, Opal,” Magnus says. Opal stares at the headless men, frozen. “Now, Opal!” Opening the pouch, Opal grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in the direction of the noblemen. The heads stop cackling and their expressions turn somber. “You have given something that cannot be measured by silver or gold - your lives,” Magnus says. “ You sacrificed yourselves so that others could be free. Your wisdom and selflessness will not be forgotten.” Placing their heads back on their torsos, the noblemen fade away. Chancellor Hammersmith leads the group through the dank, torch-lit hallways heading to the tower. King Quentin lags behind, whimpering. “Only the most nefarious enemies of the king are housed in the tower,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. The chancellor’s determined gait slows when the sound of a crying baby permeates the air. Offended, Opal says sharply, “You have imprisoned a baby in the tower? How cruel!” “Hush, girl!” Chancellor Hammersmith replies. “Presently, we are not holding any children prisoner.” They pass by a locked cell door with a black cross nailed to its center. Magnus and Opal glance at the cross, recognizing its symbolism. The crying becomes louder as they approach the cell. Chancellor Hammersmith unlocks the door. He and King Quentin hesitate to go inside the cell. Magnus enters, bowing to the apparition in front of him. Opal clings to his cloak, peeking out from behind his shoulder. A well-dressed woman, her amber hair arranged in elaborate ringlets, sits in a simple wooden chair, cradling a baby girl. “The child is blue,” Opal whispers. “She is as dead as m’lady,” Magnus replies. The woman looks up at them, tears welling in her gentle eyes. “...Help him... Help my daughter...” Magnus raises his hand, making the sign of the cross. “You are the mother of all that is innocent, pure, and righteous. You sacrificed yourself for love. Rest now, m’lady, knowing all will be made right.” The woman and the baby slowly dissolve. “Well, we made short work of them, did we not, Magnus,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “We?” Opal counters. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith enter the room looking around for other spirits, as Magnus and Opal back toward the door. “They are gone! I am free!” King Quentin exults. Magnus closes the door. Locking it, he tosses the key aside. Chancellor Hammersmith presses his crimson features against the door’s small, barred window. “Open this door, now! Your treachery will cost both of you your heads!” “Just as it cost Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine theirs?” Magnus asks. “What are you talking about, Magnus?” Opal asks. “The two noblemen, Alsace, and St. Lorraine were ardent supporters of Prince Thomas Blessing. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith took their lands and their money, then had them executed in the palace courtyard. They told the public Prince Blessing had fled to help the Valencians. Then they imprisoned his wife Madelyn, and baby daughter, Katelyn, in the tower. King Quentin was too cowardly to kill his uncle’s wife and daughter, but Chancellor Hammersmith had no such qualms. He wanted to solidify his hold on the throne. He had Madelyn poisoned, and then drowned Katelyn.” “...Water...That is why the child appeared blue to us.” “Yes.” “And the knights?” Opal asks. “Four devoted commanders from Badajoz who supported Prince Thomas’ efforts to negotiate peace with the Valencians. When the King and Chancellor Hammersmith learned of their plans, he promised them they would become Dukes if they could bring peace. Then they sent them and a hundred men into Valencian territory thinking they were there for peace talks. They were slaughtered by a thousand waiting soldiers.” Sitting in the chair, King Quentin rocks back and forth crying, “I didn’t want to do it... I didn’t want to do it...” “This treasonous act will be your last!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts. “When the guards make their rounds, we will be freed, and I will have the pleasure of seeing your heads roll off the chopping block!” “The guards are with us. They believe Thomas Blessing is the true sovereign,” Magnus replies. “Give me the pouch, Opal.” Opal hands him the pouch. Reaching inside of it, Magnus grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in Chancellor Hammersmith’s face. Chancellor Hammersmith backs away, sneezing. “The guillotine is too quick a death for you, sorcerer! I will starve you, then before you are about to die, I will have you tied to two horses and torn apart!” “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Opal asks apprehensively. “Do you believe Prince Thomas is the true king and not that simpering boy?” “Yes.” “King Quentin is the true king!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts between sneezes. “Tell them, boy, you are the true king!” “...I didn’t want to do it... Hammersmith made me do it.” “Coward! I will stand by what I have done. I did it for his majesty, the King, and for Zaragoza.” “Then we feel the same,” Magnus says, backing away from the door. “Where are you going! Let us out!” Magnus turns to face Chancellor Hammersmith. “Thank you for sparing my life You gave me the opportunity to put it to good use.” Chancellor Hammersmith turns to admonish the blubbering king. “If you had the slightest hint of a backbone, we could have sat on the throne for decades to come!” Chancellor Hammersmith’s anger fades as the surrounding shadows turn into figures. Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine appear with their heads firmly on their shoulders and daggers in their hands. The four knights materialize, their gleaming, sharp swords drawn. Opal grimaces when she hears King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith’s screams, but she doesn’t look back, grabbing Magnus’ hand. “May I ask you a question, Magnus? Why did you pick me? Anyone in the kitchen could have assisted you.” “A man can trust his daughter.” The two of them walk to the door with the black cross. Magnus pulls the cross off the door, turning it to dust in his hand. “You conjured up those spirits to frighten King Quentin, then pretended to make them disappear.” “Yes. The powder you mixed together is useless, although it would make a superb chocolate cake.” “So, this was all to avenge the rightful king,” Opal says. Magnus unlocks the door, opening it. Thomas Blessing rises from the corner of his cell. “No, it was done to free him.”


Somewhere, in the vast Acathian deserts, where men go crazy under the screaming sun, lays the forgotten city of Cal’Haldron, sifting through the golden dunes, lost in time. Under the constant erosion from the waves of sand and the blazing wind, the cyclopean city had fallen into a state of decay as it descended further into new layers of fine glitter. But intriguingly enough, no matter how ancient, how fragile the crumbling city was, there seemed to be a wisp of force holding onto it. A force just barely strong enough to encase the city in unalterable time, keeping it’s destruction at bay, as if it were a wounded kraken, waiting to reemerge from the depths once the perfect storm has been brewed. Occasionally, when the heat is high enough and the season is right, the eastern winds pick up, conjuring flash sand storms that whip hard enough to rip through the hides of a desert beast. And ironically, the destruction of such a volatile sandstorm will bring about a new different perspective in the bleakness, changing the surfaces of the sand, transforming the face of the desert. As these flash storms being to slow down, settling the dust in the air, if there is a right amount of trembling at an exact rhythm from the earth below, the marble tips of Cal’Haldron will begin to resurface, catching a quick breath of fresh air from the cleansing skies, and all those in its vicinity will be lucky enough to at most glance at it for a few moments before losing it again to the sands. Many men, both gallant and tough, have ventured into the deserts of Acathia, and marched through the long days and the brief nights, in search of the whereabouts of Hal’Caldron. They had hoped to not only be the first men to uncover the sandstone pillars last touched by those from generations beyond, but also to be the men who uncovered this treasure of fame and glory that awaited for the first. Many men, both craven and fragile, have strayed far from their journey’s route, and lumbered through the long nights and the brief days, in search of the nearest signs of civilization. They had hoped to not only avoid being the men who forgot their names and lost their sanity, but also to avoid being the men who got covered in this wasteland of dust and wind that was indifferent to them. However, neither the gallant or craven, nor the tough or the fragile, achieved the goals they had originally set out for, with many concluding without beating hearts. Those who were unfortunate enough, succumbed to the rash cuts of the sand in the wind, and withered under the scorching sun. While most of those without the intentions of trespassing were eventually retrieved by other travelers, and those of the opposite circumstance were forever consumed by the shifting waves. Often, at the back of the tavern in a nearby desert outpost, amongst the drunken men and beyond the whores out looking for pieces of silver to earn, gathers all left in the tavern that can still pronounce their names properly. And in the center of the crowd, usually sits a survivor who has seen the dark grasps of the endless desert, accounting his perilous tale out beyond where knowledge knows. He will talk about his week long struggle to cling onto his own very life, and the crowd will murmur in awe. He will recall the last few gasps of air he takes before waking up in the rescue of a caravan, and the crowd will sigh in relief. And finally, he will describe the sight in the distance he saw in which he firmly believes was the lost city of Cal’Haldron, earning the disbelief and the attention of those who still bother to pay attention. While many men claim to have seen the white marble of Cal’Haldron off in the distance, and many more claiming to have spot a glimmering light off into the distance where no civilization lies, none could ever certify their claims with any firm evidence. But the arbitrary events of an unlucky, but well-built sheep farmer travelling to sell his stock in the capital to the west landed him in the wrong place at just the right time. Without a proper map due to his negligence the farmer strayed off his journey’s course, and found himself trudging in the sands through the long days and the brief nights. He felt the heat rise beyond its usual bounds, and witnessed the brewing of a flash sandstorm. Barely making it to the cover of a nearby plateau, and just whisking his life away from the death grasp of the cutting winds, he set tent in hopes to outlast the winds of the east. But no sooner had the winds begin to drop, did his unfortunate soul run into a seasonal earthquake that shook the plateau from below. And as he scrambled out of the falling cliffs and dodged through the rising rocks, he mistook one step and fell sideways and down into the shifting dunes. But when he came to a halt at the bottom of the dune, he no longer felt the heat on his neck, and the shaking from beneath had stopped. Slowly, carefully, he looked up, and found himself, at the gates, of Cal’Haldron. As the sand seethed through the cracks in the stone, and while the pillars began to slightly crumble under its own weight, the sheep farmer, so inquisitively, lifted himself up, leveling with a sculptured jackal. Lifting a hand up close to the jackal’s face, and as if drawn to it, he reached out instinctively, and touched it. The beige sandstone and the smooth surfaces seemed to distract his attention from the menacing glare and the sharpened teeth of the statue, as if it simultaneously welcomed and warded off the city to strangers seeking its fortune. The round edges of the jackal were the roughest, and the cornered sides were the smoothest. The sandstone that stood guard under direct sunlight felt cool and calm, but the base and neck of the jackal that remained in the shadows radiated with heat and energy. He could feel the integrity of the inanimate stone and its foundation; he could feel the life that swirled within the sculpture, within the city. Oblivious to his surroundings and current predicament, the sheep farmer, mesmerized by the energy and force that he felt within the lost city, detached from the statue, delved into the citadel that loomed over him. The bright sun that warmed both sand and stone around him glimmered off the golden arches, reflecting off the still settling sand, sparkling in his nearby vicinity. The silent alleyways that were strung across the city in no organized matter gave off a mysterious aura that lured his mind and body in, leading him through a string of abandoned sectors of the city that lay barren. As he exited the outskirts of the massive city and entered the inner rings, giant monuments that worship the old forgotten gods towered over him, casting long shadows that stretched further than expected. The hollowness of the parade ground before him looked a bit darker than it had from afar, and suddenly a cool breeze swept across the field, prompting the farmer to tug tighter on his robes, so he urged on further into the depths of the city center. At the end of the opposite field, cemented firmly into the ground, was a large temple built with blackened sandstone that featured obsidian figurines that seemed to keep a constant watch on the farmer. By then, there had been a noticeable change in the atmosphere that shrouded the sheep farmer. While the sun still stood bright directly overhead, he no longer felt any warmth from it. The winds that orchestrated the desert did not pick to even the slightest whisper, and the sand that had originally struck bright with its golden light were now a few shades darker, absorbing the brightness around it. Though the farmer began to feel the corrupting power that rose from beneath the ground, he no longer had the ability to muster his will and head back out of the darkness. Compelled by the bleak energy, he trudged, one step, at a time, up the stair of the ziggurat, and at the top of it was a set of trapdoors that slid open without command, revealing a dark descent into what lies beneath. On his very first step down into a crypt of insanity, the farmer, aware of his vulnerable mortality towards the malevolent energy but incapable of doing anything about it, was overwhelmed almost instantaneously by everything all at once. His past, present, and future flooded his memories. He felt afraid, confident, ecstatic, depressed, all at once. Every single bit of movement in the entire city was relayed through his head, every tick of sound that crept in the city rang in his ear, and every ray of light which shone in the city blinded his eyes. And within a second, all the chaos around and within the farmer ended, and the void of the temple opened itself up, consuming the collapsed farmer into its abyss. When he came around to his senses, the farmer found himself in a cavernous room with pillars supporting the slanted ceiling. The trapdoor above had long ceiled itself off, and the stairway leading down had retracted back into the walls. As he tried to lift himself up, he found himself unable to do so. His limbs were immobilized by an unknown force, and his soul was shackled to the energy that filled the room. Like the harbinger of insanity, time dripped into the farmer’s mind. Slowly, it drained into his pristine chalice of mental state, corrupting him while he gripped at what left of his clear thoughts he still had. Dazed with his back leaned against a marble pillar, he couldn’t rid of the clamorous silence that wouldn’t stop buzzing at his hears, and would regularly release a feeble whimper of pain and struggle. And it what could have been an eternity, the calmness that drove the farmer mad was disturbed by a rising tremble, breaking the silence and the stillness in the room. Out of the peripheral vision in his fading vision, he saw the swirling of physical energy that came together and formed a vague humanoid being off in the distance. Fear forcibly struck through his heart, the farmer, with his last bit of personal will, called out and questioned his own sanity whether he was seeing things or not. The figure, upon hearing his sound, dispersed into the air, and the farmer suddenly encountered a steadily rising feeling of anger and hatred. Without anymore will nor life, under the corruption and control of a split mind, he closed his eyes for the last time, and in the distance he heard the rumble from the ground. “Your time is up, farmer, but mine is about to begin.


“Everything is changing, I really mean it this time.” She was looking at me with that spark in her eyes she always had when she assumed a new persona. This time, it was some sort of 80’s glam metal retro look. She’d grown out her hair like Bon Jovi and started wearing a ratty torn-up white muscle shirt that showed off those goddamn biceps I could never break free from. “From now on, everything will be about you, babe,” She had a pleading, hopeful tone to her voice. She really believed in herself. Then again, she always did. I just smiled and looked away, thinking about how many times she’d said that. all superstars are like that I suppose. Always changing, adapting, evolving. I think the one thing that never changes is that they never stay the same. “You mean everything, Ava?” “I’m past giving up on you. I need you more than anything, and I’m not throwing our love away this time. Please baby,” She reached in to grab my hand, her rough calloused fingers weaving their way around mine. “Stay with me.” Damn it, why is she so good at this? I fall for it every time, but god when she talks like that, it’s like I can see her heart. I can feel how genuine she is, and all I want is to reach in and touch her again. It’s like I’m her fucking dog, always coming back whenever she says my name. But I just can't help it. Jesus Christ, if she were an ocean, I’d drown in her every day she graced the shore. “I’ve never left,” I bit my lip, my stomach filling with the nervous pit it always did when I came back to her. At this point, it's more fear than excitement. But still, I hope. Still, I feel like she’s changed this time, that she's gonna make good this time. Her blue eyes spark even brighter, and she shone that smile that consumed your entire being in a flood of euphoria. “You’ve always known how to make me the happiest girl on earth,” she said, practically wrapping my heart in linen lace, and binding me even closer to her. “You’d better get out there,” I told her. “They're expecting you” She fell into a nervous frenzy as she looked down at the watch on her wrist. “Shit! Your right,” she grabbed the letterman jacket she had laying on her table and ran over to give me a deep, intense kiss before pulling back. “I love you more than anything, Cathy” “I know you do, sweetheart,” I said with a laugh, “I know you do.” She lingered in the doorway for a second, doing a quick scan of me before smiling and running out to the soundcheck. What the hell did I just rope myself into? Sure, those flirty little expressions of hers are fun now, but things will just fall apart. They always somehow fall apart again. I walk over to the little mini fridge in the corner of the room and look inside. There are a couple of bottles of chardonnay that probably cost a couple hundred a pop. I find a glass in a cupboard in the room, and sit back down on the leather couch that I was on earlier She used to drink shit like this all the time. When she had first gotten big, she’d wear these nice, tailored suits. She’d slick back her hair, and go for a real refined butch look. Even on stage, she’d be sipping chardonnay from an ornate crystal glass, which she’d keep perched on the piano. That was the first time she’d cheated on me. To be fair, she had no idea how to handle all the stress of actually keeping up with her image. She was refined on stage, but behind the scenes, she was falling apart. Backstage, she didn’t even bother with the chardonnay, just downing vodka and popping Adderall to try and calm and energize herself, desperately looking for some sort of balance. And so I guess when the piano player tried to reach out to her, and bring her out of that solitude, it was only natural to start spiraling into more intimate ways of comforting each other. It was the piano player who told me the morning after. She was a pretty decent girl, after all. She felt I deserved to know how big of a mistake they’d made, and she was right of course. So I called up Ava and told her I knew. We came to a pretty quick agreement that the relationship wasn’t going to be able to function anymore. So we broke up She had a few phases while we were apart that first time. It was the longest we’d stayed broken up, so I honestly forget some of what they were. I think at one point she wore a lot of leather and had a lot of neon lights, and she might have gone steampunk for a bit too. But I remember what she looked like when she showed up at my door for the first time in close to a year and a half. She had on skinny jeans and a simple white blouse. Her hair was grown out long, and she’d done a full face of makeup. Honestly, she looked straight, which was a little strange to see. She said that she just wasn’t happy without me. All she wanted was to come back to me, to be mine plain and simple. She’d said something pretty similar to what she’d said tonight. That from now on, it would all be for me. Every song, album, and concert would all be to me. And after almost an hour and a half, I said yes. That same cycle would keep repeating for years. She’d cheat on me, we’d break up, then get back together again. I came back to the comfortable leather couch I sat on, the sweet cold taste of the wine rolling into my throat. There’s a feeling. It’s not quite a high, more of a deep contentment, that comes whenever I’m around Ava. When she’s there, every emotion stills. It feels like everything will be alright, like there's this equilibrium. But then she leaves, and you realize how unbalanced being around her is. Maybe it’s something in her cologne, or some way she moves, but she lulls me into a trance. And once she’s left, the hallucination rots away, showing the beautiful decadent world she put me into is built on garbage and rats. I get this sort of pit in my stomach, the realization that I put my all into her again, and that I'm left empty once she’s gone. I put the wine back down on the table with a sigh. I shouldn’t do this again. I’ve been through it enough to know what to expect. I’ve lost money, health, and friends on loving Ava. I need to stop it now before things get bad again. I need to start making choices that sting again, so I can do what's right for both of us. The right thing to do right now would be to leave. To block and erase her number and never see her again. Build a life somewhere else, find someone who can stay devoted to me, and focus on building a life that isn’t centered on someone else. It’s wrong for me to only feel fulfilled, to only have equilibrium when she’s near me. Instead, I get up to go watch her. I don’t want to hurt her, so she at least deserves to hear from me that I can’t stay. After all, I need to be firm and rational, not cruel and cold. And I might as well watch her perform one last time, and enjoy being near her for just a bit longer. It’s not always heartache and pain. I make it to the front row just as the lights go down. People start cheering, and it's a big crowd. They fill out the entire 2000 seats of the theater. A voice starts to introduce the band, and then the lights turn on, illuminating them as they start in on one of their new songs, hard and fast. She’s at the front jumping and singing energetically into the mic. Then after minutes of build-up, she starts into an intense guitar solo, her fingers moving swiftly and deftly across her fender like it’s the natural thing for her to do. The song finally ends with a crash, and the crowd erupts again. She takes a minute to bask in the applause, her arms raised in triumph, that ensnaring smile plastered on her face. She egg’s them on, waving her arms to ask for more when the cheering lulls, greeted with an even louder cacophony of screaming. She’s a performer, after all, it's only natural that she’s good at this, at turning the entire room on. She gets back closer to the mic again and says: “Thank you! I love you all so, so much. But I want to take a little break, and dedicate this next one to my beautiful, kind, long-suffering girlfriend. It’s a slower song, tell me if y’all know High Enough by Damn Yankees” A few scattered bits of cheering came from the audience as one of her bandmates starts in on a soft melody on an acoustic guitar. She starts singing, with her eyes closed and the mic next to her face like it's something holy. God damn, this is going to hurt like hell. I try to distract myself every time she looks towards me in the stands. I awkwardly try to avoid eye contact, looking at anything else other than her. But my heart drops when the music does because I know what's coming. “ Don’t say goodnight, say your gonna stay forever...” her voice drops into an emotional quiver at that last part, and I can’t help but look back up at her. She’s staring right at me, and there's this horrific shining in her glistening blue eyes as she starts in on her guitar. “ Can you take me high enough? To fly me over, yesterday...” She starts in on the chorus, and it physically pains me to feel how much I still love her, each note sending daggers down my spine. I can’t do this again, I can’t let it happen again. She’s too inconsistent. She only relies on emotion, that's the reason I can't break free from her. I can't give in tonight, or we’ll never break this god-forsaken cycle. “ Can you take me high enough? ” it’s that second high note that unravels me. It’s such a pure, unfiltered feeling in her voice that she almost sends us all into tears. I look at her, and I don’t see any of the trouble from the past. All I see is the dorky girl I fell for all those years ago, who smoked too much and played music like the gods delivered it to her. And it was then I knew. She was the Phantom to my Christine, capturing me again in her song, leading me back down into the catacombs of our love. There was no way I could escape from her. Frankly, I didn’t know that I wanted to leave. Change can be great sometimes. But some things can never change.


I died yesterday. A bus hit me. I didn't see it. I was rushing to make it for my mother in law's birthday dinner. My family was waiting for me. My wife and two children. The driver did nothing wrong. She was not driving any faster, didn't go over a crosswalk. I must have jumped in front of her bus out of nowhere. I don't remember. The irony was that the dinner was not even ready. Nobody was anxiously waiting for me. Nobody rang on my phone. It was me that was rushing. The bus hit me on my right side. It broke most of my ribs, my legs and hit my head hard. I was bleeding in pain and agony. So many thoughts, so many moments. So many missed opportunities. The moment this happens, you think about everything that life prepares you for. And this is not part of it. Schools don't teach us how to die. Neither churches or mosques. Nobody talks about death. And it always comes as a surprise. It's the biggest surprise of them all. And it sucks. As I was trying to figure out if somebody is going to help me, one figure approached very close to me, rushing. Picked me up and started talking to me. "Can you hear me?", the person asked. I couldn't answer. My words were forming but I couldn't say them. The figure was a man, 50 or something, grey hair, strong grasp. He caught and pulled me onto the pavement. "Take it easy, an ambulance is coming", he said. People started to gather around. I slowly raised my head to see the point of the impact. There was a blood stain on the asphalt. And the front of the bus was damaged. “Is my head that strong?”. "How many fingers do you see?", the guy asked me. "Four", I tried to answer. "You see, you are doing much better", he said. "Can you try to stand up now?" I couldn't stand up. I tried to move my legs but nothing. "I cannot. Can you please call my wife", I said to the person as the air was becoming colder. "What is her number?", he asked politely. "Reach to my pocket for my phone.. I don't.. remember", I said. He took my phone. Used my finger to get in and called my wife. "Hi. This is Smoke...", he introduced and explained to her what happened. He was quite calm. He told her to come to the ER and did his best to comfort her. Who was this guy? "All good? Stay lying there.. things are gonna get better for you now.", he said. "How do you know this?", I asked. "Things always get better, don't they?", he laughed and looked towards the street. "Well not for me I guess...", I said. The pain was growing. My breath was getting slower. "Things become harder right before they get easier.", he laughed. I looked at him for a bit. He was very happy with what he was doing. "Why do you do this?", I asked. "Because we are humans and humans help each other." "Looks like you are the only one wanting to help me", I said. "I am the one that really cares, true.", he said. "But why do you care?", I asked with curiosity. He grasped over my body stronger and sat on the pavement right next to me. "Here, lay here over me, it's softer..", he said. “Don’t move your head...”. I was there. Lying on the pavement with a stranger that wanted to apparently help me. "Maybe he is an imposter? Maybe he is taking advantage of the situation and then will do something to my family?", I started thinking. "Sir, when did my wife say will come here?", I asked. "Don't worry about it, she will arrive soon...". "But sir, who are you?", I asked. "I am here to help you, don't worry.. take it easy..", he said calmly. "Well in case something happens, can you tell me who you are, for better or for worse... just in case?", I asked. "Sure, my name is Smoke. I live on the same address where you live, if all this goes well, you will find me there", he said. "Same address as me?", I asked surprised. I have never seen this person. And if I know something really good, that is my neighborhood. This guy is definitely an imposter. "What building and floor are you living on?", I asked him. He stood there quiet, still taking care of me. Still holding me not make anything stupid. "You make this more difficult for everyone, why don't you relax?", he said. "Relax?", I managed to push his hand off of my chest. "Please tell me who you are?". Smoke put his hand on his knee. "Well I am everyone you know and everything you do. All your experiences and all your knowledge. I am your mind.", he said. "I am here to make things easier for you". "This is nonsense.. to make *what* things easier?", I asked confused. "You are dying. I am your mind that presents to you as a person in an attempt to survive. We know how to interact with human beings the best. As you are dying, I am running out of ideas on how to help you, so I thought talking to someone will be easier for you...". "I am dying?", I said scared. "Come on.. isn't it obvious?", Smoke said. I raised my head again and saw an ambulance coming. The group of curious people was being broken down by the medics and the police. A body was lying in front of the bus, not moving. "Oh my god, I am dying...". My breath became fast. My thoughts became fogged, my vision turned blurry. "Help me... I am choking...", I told Smoke. "So what?", he answered nonchalantly. "I will die....", I said.. "Not more than you will die anyway", he answered. At that moment all of my fear turned into peace. All of my panic and anxiety turned into a feeling of calmness. The death destroyed all of my fears. The words of Smoke made it clear. This is happening. There is no need to be afraid. The fear will not make it stop. It's inevitable. "So why did my brain create you?", I asked. "You know when people say that when you die, you see your whole life in front of your eyes? Well that's not quite true. You see the things you choose to see. To re-experience. Your mind will go through its knowledge and memories seeking for a way to survive. The last drop of hope for it to help you. In your case, it worked wonders. It created me. So I am here now to bring you there, to your safe place.", Smoke explained. "And what is my safe place?", I asked shocked. "Your experience that you want to make through one more time before the curtains shut. Your mind is a great organ. It's unique that it can act upon your perception of time. If you choose to have your past 20 years be your safe place, your mind will make it look as if it's yet another life-time. Then you will live again those years. If you choose to have the last time you ate an ice-cream as your last experience, it's gonna be made into a complete life-time. It's like a first-class treatment from your mind. It's a classy way to say goodbye. I stood silent. I was not sure where I was. "Did you even call my wife?", I asked. "No. That was all in your head. A death-dream.", he said. "She doesn't know I will die?" "No. She doesn't. That's for the better of all I guess.". "So.. what's gonna be?", Smoke asked. "What's gonna be what?", I said. "What's your safe place?", he asked again. Things were calm. My breath was calm. I could feel its rhythm in sync with my heart beat. They were both slow. Getting even slower. I didn't try to avoid anything. Any thought that scared me. That made me sad, angry or even happy. I let it be. All I was thinking of was my family. My two angel children and my lioness wife. I wanted to see them again. "Can I mix experiences?", I asked Smoke. "You can. But not from your whole life. You can pick two experiences and I will do my best.", he answered. "My life was really great. It was complete with people and possessions. It was incomplete with time", I started. "All the way through it, I was always looking for more or less time. I was rushing to get there. I was always late. If not, I was about to be late. I was chasing situations to happen so that I can start living. I never started living now. I was waiting for 'it' to happen. And that caused lots of anxiety and stress. Made me feel scared and sad. But now things make so much sense. The fears are no more, the expectations are gone. That amount of calmness and peace was to be found only on one more place in my life: my grandma's home in summer. If I ever want to experience something again is that calmness, together with my family. I choose my safe place to be that house, in the beginning of June, where the grown-up me will go together with my wife and my kids. And my grandparents will be there and my uncle too. They will see us park our car and they will come at the front door to greet us. Then I will hug them. Feel the smell of theirs. Feel their warmth. Then I will introduce them to my family. "This is my wife, I really love. These are my children, mischiefing little piglets" I will say. They will all hug and kiss. Then we'll go inside and the smell of yogurt and cucumber mixed with freshly chopped garlic will fill in our nostrils. Kids will ask what that nice smell is. I will explain. I will give them to try the food. Then once we finish the main meal, we'll have our desert. A nice smelling watermelon. I will pick it up from the cellar. Then bring it to the table. Then we'll eat it and tell lots of jokes. The feeling would be complete, nothing more would be needed other than that small house with a small room that can suit 10 people or so. And those people inside. Then we'll announce rest-time and go upstairs to take some noon naps. The cushions will be cold and soft. The summer covers will be silky. The smell will be a mixture of the smell of old books and old furniture. After an hour we will wake up and go down to the yard. Hot summer. My grandma will be laughing seeing us. My grandpa will ask me to bring him water from the yard-fountain. Then we will sit under the house's shadow until the sun falls down. The kids will be playing in the yard, we will be talking, drinking coffee and eating my grandma's sweets. And this will be everything that we will be doing for one whole summer. Then when the summer ends, we will go. We will say our goodbyes and the hopes that we will meet again somewhere sometime. But if we don't then we can make ourselves, each-other, live into our thoughts. The one that will survive the last will carry that burden of the memory. Right before the summer ends, I will go and kiss my kids, hug them and say a few words as life advice. Then I will go and lay down my wife's lap and fall asleep there as she will be touching through my hair. It'd be the safest place for me to come to the end of the summer. And that will be my safe-place.", I said. "Ok. You got that right. That is your safe place. That is where you will wake up tomorrow. Was very interesting to be your mind, by the way. You were always onto something... and I really enjoyed your reactiveness your whole life. You could have lived a bit more, for sure, but what you lived is something many others cannot live for 100 more years. So be calm. Now close your eyes. Let your breath rest....that's it...", said Smoke. The noises disappeared. The voices went silent. A heavy curtain fell. The darkness overtook. The next morning started just like any other morning. "Are you ready?", I asked my kids. "Ready for what?", my son asked. "To meet your grand-grand parents and my uncle", I said. "We do it today? We are going there today?", my daughter asked excitedly. "Yes, we are going to visit them today. And you know what? We will stay there the whole summer”, I said. "Yeey, daddy that is so amazing!", they both exclaimed. We took the car to their house. As we approached the small street things started getting really heavy. I haven't been there for some time. We came close to my grandma's house. Then right in front of the front-door of their house. I honked. Then I started parking the car. My grandma, grandpa and uncle came in front of the door. They were cheerful and smiling. Super excited. We got out of the car. Locked it and went to them. I hugged them very strongly. All three of them. "I missed you so much", I said as tears rolled down my face. "How's it been?" "This is my wife I really love. These are my children, mischiefing little piglets", I said. All of them hugged there for a while. Then we all went inside. "This summer is going to be amazing", I thought.


(WP) Old Habits Die Hard You’re about to end it all when you are interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. The cold, silken weight of the firearm leaves your mouth, and you set it on the immaculate countertop. “I’m sorry, old friend, but you’ll have to wait for a little longer. It appears I have a guest.” The monster inside the weapon hisses, cackling with cold laughter. *Very well. I’ve waited this long; what’s a few minutes more?* Ignoring the triumph in its voice, you walk to the door, peering into the peephole. All you see is a cloud of bright, kinky curls, the color of a pink blush sunset. You open the door, frowning. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay away, far away!” “I’m worried about you,” Callie replies, pushing past you into the apartment, her dark eyes probing, searching for something, and frustration blooms in your chest, climbing up into your throat, threatening to cut off your next words. “I already told you, Callie, this isn’t your business--” “Bullshit it isn’t, Nolan! You can’t do this. You’re not all bad. We all have monsters inside of us--” “God damn it, Callie, this isn’t some philosophical discussion or a metaphor! *My* monster is something real. I’ve hurt people at its behest. And I can’t do it anymore. I’d rather be dead than to hurt someone else, accidentally or on purpose!” Your voice breaks on the last word, and your eyes sting; the room bows and sways, and you can’t help wishing that you’d bought some nice liquor for the occasion. You don’t understand why Callie is trying to talk you out of this; she barely knows you, in the first place. “I’m done, Callie. I can’t do it anymore.” “Nolan, please--” The spirit inside of the gun finally flows out of the weapon in a gout of sulfur-scented smoke, taking the form of a person with a bright, bloody red smile. *Foolish girl,* it sneers, swelling before her, almost preening in front of her. *This child has belonged to me before he even left his mother’s womb. And you think* you *can save him from his fate?* Its laughter echoes throughout the room, derisive and inescapable. “Nolan can make his own destiny!” Callie cries out, and you shake your head; you never wanted anyone involved in this, least of all a barista you made the mistake of confiding in one rainy day. “Please, Callie, I promise you, it would be better if you just left. And I could end it all. It’s safer for everyone that way.” “I’m not leaving you, Nolan, I already told you that! Please, don’t do this!” She grabs the front of your T-shirt, fingers twisted into the fabric like claws. But you don’t have a choice, regardless of Callie’s friendship. Every bone in your body is screaming with fatigue, desperate for release. You’re so exhausted, so tired of fighting for every ounce of control.