Copyright © 2020 Fallow Amber. All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. *** "The Blue Grotto!" Mummy squeals to all of us. "Ooh aah..." We, except the strange kid in our family, all coo, peering incredibly at the Motoscafisti Capri brochure in mummy's hands. "The 'grotto'? Like a cave or something? Or the Grotto? As in the Grotta Azzurra?" As expected, Georgie asks, staring into space with a smallish grin on her oval shaped face. We all groan knowingly with mummy smiling at her. Jessamyn nudges me in the back before whispering a 'tell her' to only my hearing. I nod taking in a deep breath as I move toward Georgie. "Look here Geo-graphy." I scoff out placing my left hand over her shoulders, while the others including mummy snicker at my statement to Georgie. Georgie smiles satisfied that we're beginning to call her by her 'silly' nickname. "Don't do that!" I say, removing my hand almost immediately. She frowns at my gesture. Everyone knows I hate it whenever I do something nice, or something they like, and then they get all happy and squishy at me. "You see Geo", I shorten her name as everyone stares at her, ready to see the 'sweet, sweet look' she'd have all displayed on her face. "I hate to say this, but you're sincerely no fun." I drop the bombshell, stepping away from her. Her face starts changing to small frowns hidden behind her fake smile. I shouldn't be scared but she's quite the character that knows just how to throw a fit, even though I'm the oldest child, I am not taking 'any' chances. "Why, thank you, Lorraine." She says, her lips twitching a little. I scoff at her calling me by my third name. She is the only one that calls me that, except maybe Aunt Suga who's Japanese, because Georgie has a geographical term for everyone and unsurprisingly mine is Lorraine because being the geographic whiz she is, Lorraine is a region in eastern France and coincidentally, I happened to have been born there. "Okay, okay, boys and girls, enough of all the drama and let's start packing our bags." Mummy butts in, knowing fully well that if care isn't taken, there'd be splashes... splashes of water everywhere, literally. Our own form of fighting is what we call the 'Water Fight or Slide'. The name is still under construction anyways. I walk out last with Jessamyn, Corbin and Vinay; we're all quadruplets so it's right for us to do all things together. *** "I'm Hank Marvin --- hungry!" Exclaims Cheshire, the benjamine --- the baby of the family, in her silky English accent. "We're almost there, Ches, avoir de la patience --- have patience." I say for the third time to her, only this time in my native language, French. Mummy and daddy had each of us in different countries and regions so we all have different languages and cultures; except we, the quads but one thing we all still have in unison is being British. "Okay..." She drops down in defeat before going back to colouring and painting. The Blue Grotto, according to daddy, is a sea cave on the coast of the Capri, which is in Southern Italy. We had to travel all the way from Hampton Hill, a Greater London suburb where we live, to Italy by plane. We got here yesterday and decided to hit the roads to the Blue Grotto today for our proper vacation on day 2. Mummy and daddy promised to take us to a lot of places for summer holidays. I picked this year's events and activities with a little help from mummy, as always. I love Italy and seas, mostly because Italy shares borders with France in the north and my best colours are blue, white and red anyways, which blue typically is the colour of any water body. And I know all of this, thanks to Georgie. Which is what explains why we're in Italy. I glance over to Vinay, who's watching an Indian movie with Corbin. I yawn feeling a little bored. I can't play with Jessamyn because she's reviewing Misha's poem. Nor can I play with Daphna or Georgie because they're busy learning new moons of planets or whatever they called it. I sigh staring at the sunny grounds outside the tinted window beside me, suddenly noticing a few buses packed with people riding along with us. "We are here!" I scream, finally feeling alive. Everyone in the van starts screaming out except our parents, of course, the little Italian words we knew. *** "Finally!" Daphna squeals as we all enter the rowing boat with some other strange people. "I'm so psyched about this!" Jessamyn says munching on her fettuccine bolognese whilst sipping on her coconut panna cotta that sat comfortably beside her on the wooden bench. She's a chowhound. "Guys, lower your heads." Georgie gasps aloud to all of us on the rowing boat. "Why?" Cheshire asks sternly, peering at her face before she continues, "I want the tour guide rowing the boat to tell us why, not you." "What no!" She exclaims about to start a boring session of geographical nonsense again. Everyone groans except the strangers before the tour guide saves the day. "I'm happy you like the Blue Grotto so much so I'd take it from here kiddo." He pats her before starting to explain all the amazing reasons why we need to lower our heads, if we didn't want to have a headache; and the few more guides we'd be needing once we started our trip into the Grotto. While explaining, I caught a glimpse of Georgie's face; she looked like she was going to explode in rage. I snickered alongside my other quads. When we started our trip, we got into the cave; blue everywhere. The tour guide, Luca Giovanni, sang all sorts of traditional neapolitan folk songs we've never heard before but Georgie, the geographic brainiac and an Italian and strict Italian film buff like Misha, knew all the songs. Once at the centre, Georgie starts explaining more things about the Grotto to us, telling us why it's always blue in summer, the history behind it and all it's dangers. "... And it was known during the time of ancient Rome when everyone thought that it was one of Emperor Tiberius' favorite nymphs, which is a female spirit associated with grottoes or caves..." She said, stating all things the so-called Tiberius used the Grotto for. Mummy and daddy smiled proudly at her, holding hands. "Actually, the cave was used as a private swimming pool by the Emperor Tiberius." Luca states as a matter-of-factly the real truth behind it. "This is the statue of the Greek god of the sea, son of Poseidon, Triton. Tiberius, back then, decorated the cave as a marine temple dedicated to different sea nymphs, with a number of statues lining the cave." Luca says with one of the women on the boats, we didn't know, pointing at the statue with a flashlight. "Wow!" We clap for Luca while he does a mock bow before he turns the boat around to head back to land. I take a few videos with my family and some with the other people for school report. By now, we were all starving except Georgie, who looked like she still wanted to educate us more. As we got to the mouth, Luca stopped paddling. "August Kopisch rediscovered, with Ernst Fries, the Blue Grotto at Capri after it had been forgotten for centuries once Tiberius died." He ended the speech showing us a statue of the two heroes. I took videos of the old but great looking statues. "Enough!" Georgie screams. I knew it! She was going to definitely explode now. I set my camera on her face and Luca's ready for the drama to unfold. "For many centuries when the Blue Grotto was abandoned, the local sailors feared it because of legends of spirits and demons which stayed in the cave. But all this changed on April 18, 1826 when the cave was found by a German writer, August Kopisch and his friend and travel companion who was a painter Ernst Fries. They were all taken to the cave by Angelo Ferraro, a local fisherman, and the notary Giuseppe Pagano." She gasps out in one breath. "Mummy, daddy, I just want to go home. Luca's been stealing my thunder." She says with a tear slipping down her face. I hold her hand and put her to sit down beside me while she rests her head on my shoulders. Being the oldest, this was somewhat my job - to have my siblings' backs. "Dear, dear!" I pat her on the back while she soaked my purple long sheer blouse with salty tears. Everyone pitied her and looked nonstop at her while she sobbed. My family knew she hated whenever she wasn't the one on spotlight educating people about stuff she knew. Anywhere she went, she was given that respect of sharing her knowledge but it seemed like this place was not like every other place. "I'm sorry." She whispers out as we get to the shore. The End! Written by 💎 Fallow 💎


my Joints ached, the apocalypse had not been kind to me or my wife. I cast a glance at my wife of thirty years, her eyes starry as she gazed around at the huge abandoned buildings. "Oh Hubert isn't it just so beautiful, mom would take me here on sunny days to see the rainbows cast by the glass." she exclaimed. she was stuck in the old world, I wish I was as lucky as her. I gently took her hand and said "maybe we'll rent a car and go see your mother" her mother was long gone, even before the war, but I loved seeing her smile, it made this bleak world a little brighter. She smiled and said "that would be nice" I allowed myself a smile and adjusted my grip on my walking stick, listening to the quiet birdsong in the dead city. We walked until we came across a small suburb, we found a small house that looked like ours and sat on the steps to rest. I pulled one of our cans of food and two plastic forks. "Hungry sweetie?" I asked as I pulled the top open. she smiled and said "yes dear." I handed her a fork and set the can between us taking small bites to let her have the most of it. The bang and whizz of a round just past my head sent me to my feet as I pulled my wife up. "whats wrong!?" she squealed as I pitched back to kick the houses door in. another round screaming into the doorframe. The door crashed open and I pushed her inside, getting in myself and slamming the door shut as yet another round smashed through it above my head. I grabbed a dusty chair and slammed it under the door knob before backing away and reaching into my courier bag. I pulled the snub nose .38 out and shakily pointed it at the door. I could hear someone outside. "D-Dont come in here, I-I'll shoot." I stammered as I pulled the hammer back. I was greeted with laughter... insane laughter. my heart fell, cannibals. I took a deep breath as my wife mumbled "Hubert, why are you pointing a gun at the jehovah's witnesses?" There was a Thud! against the door and pleading before a high pitched squeal, then silence. I was shaking so bad I couldn't see the gun's sights. "Are Y'all okay?" a young man's voice came through the door, he sounded like I knew him. "Jay! Is that you Dear? I haven't seen you in ages!" My wife exclaimed. there was a pause "Mrs.Ronson!? is Hubert there!?" I almost dropped my gun... It was my grand sons friend, the one he was withwhen the war started. "I'm, I'm here too son" I said in disbelief. there was an audible sigh of relief and then "Can, can you guys come out? I need to get my eyes on ya." I almost broke my hip getting the chair away from the door and opening it. I stared in disbelief at the blue haired teenager cradling an assault rifle in front of me. Armor made from license plates synched down to his torso. "My god old man..." he started with a grin, propping the gun against his shoulder "I can't believe a crusty old grunt like yourself made it this far." I gave an awkward startled laugh and nodded. but one question burned in my mind. "my grandson?" I asked hesitantly. His face fell and he peeked past me at my wife. "I think its best if we get back to the apc first." He quietly said, turning around and waving for me to follow.


I parked the car on the shoulder of the road. It was too dark out to see anything beyond the headlights. The moon was shrouded in clouds, and the sky was black. All around me through sealed windows, I could see faint, ghastly silhouettes of trees against the darkened sky. There were no stars. I stared at the road. The beams illuminated thirty feet in front of me. I could see the dirt road, I could see dead grass, and I could see the bottoms of towering trees. The dirt path winded away out of sight--swallowed by the dark abyss of the forest. There was nothing more to see. It felt like an hour, but when I checked the clock only ten minutes had passed. Story of my life. "You wanna stop here?" the woman in the passenger seat asked. "No," I said. "I don't know." "It's okay. We can talk here." "Yeah. Okay." The engine hummed and the car continued to vibrate. There was nothing moving in the headlight beams. The grass beside the road was cold, dead, and dry. The tops of trees were becoming more visible against the almost-black sky. I wasn't sure if there was more light now, or if I'd just gotten used to the dark. "What did you want to talk about?" I asked. "Oh, you know. *Things.* How you've been." I turned to look at her, and I said, "What do you mean?" She looked back at me. Her hair, skin, and eyes were dark. She had a warm and pleasant expression. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then she said, "I mean, I want to talk about you." "Yeah, I got that part. But what the hell does that mean?" Her expression didn't change. She almost smiled, actually. She said, "No need to be so aggressive." "I'm sorry." "No worries. Rough day today?" "Yeah." I looked straight ahead again, and shifted my glance at the rear-view mirror. There was no sign of life ahead of us or behind us. The night was peaceful and quiet. "You've had a lot of rough days lately," she said. "Am I right?" "Yeah," I said. "Don't worry. I understand." "I know you do," I said. "Nobody else does. Maybe I'm overthinking things, but I'm pretty sure people can see how miserable I am. Either they don't care, or they just--I don't know. They probably think I'm a whining kid trapped in an adult's body." I put my forehead on the steering wheel, and I sighed. "I just feel like I'm so far away from everybody." There was a long pause. Then she said, "It's okay. It's actually a lot simpler than you think." I rolled my eyes, picked up my head, and looked at her again. "Is that right?" "Yeah. Oh! I almost forgot--did you bring it?" "Bring what?" "Your favorite magazine, remember?" I winced. "That doesn't make sense. Who the hell reads magazines, anyways?" "Hey, this won't be as cheesy as you think it's gonna be." I paused, then said, "Whatever you say." She said, "I figured you wouldn't be too enthusiastic about that part. Not without my encouragement. So I grabbed one from your apartment when you were in the bathroom. I don't know if it's your favorite, but it'll work." "What do you mean, *work?*" "It's a surprise. But I think I know how to fix you--how shitty you feel, I mean." "How's that?" She laughed and said, "It's really easy. First things first, all you have to do is hold my hand." She placed her left hand palm-up on my car's handbrake. I stared at her hand for a long moment. Then I looked back up at her. All I could say was: "What?" "Hold my hand. I promise I'll never let you feel lonely again." "Okay, fine." I obeyed. "Now, I want you to drive further down the road. Pull off somewhere nobody will find us. But keep holding my hand. Okay?" "Okay." With my left hand on the steering wheel, I pulled back onto the road. I drove deeper into the forest. We were descending down a long, shallow hill. The sky got darker as we got further in. It took me a while to notice the difference, but at the end of this road the sky was much darker than where we'd entered the forest. I could no longer distinguish between the horizon and the tops of trees. Everything outside the headlight beams was just black. "This is a good spot," she said. "Okay," I replied. I parked the car on the shoulder of the dirt path and turned off the engine. The headlights extinguished, and we were both engulfed in black. In the dimmest light of the starless sky, I could see her dark eyes reflecting. "Now. Take the magazine..." She reached into her purse and pulled it out. She dropped it onto my lap. I looked down at it. "...and load it in the pistol, and chamber the bullet." I obeyed. I pushed the magazine into the pistol, and I pulled back the pistol's slide. When I let go, the mechanical *clack* brought a small bit of solace to my mind. She continued: "I know you're tired. You don't have to be tired anymore. Put the barrel in your mouth or under your chin--I promise you'll never feel lonely again. Just aim for the sky." I did. It was more comfortable to place the barrel under my chin than it was to stick cold, greasy metal into my mouth. I did that and I looked at her. She said, "But please make sure you don't miss. If you miss, you'll feel even lonelier than before. You'll wish you'd never met me." "Why's that?" I asked. "Because," she said, looking straight at my eyes, "then people will know you flirted with me. Nobody likes a flirt. Remember?" "Right," I said. "How could I forget?" "Now," she said, smiling, "don't let my hand go. Just pull the trigger, and you'll never be lonely again. I promise." I kept staring at her. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't find any more words. There was no color in my heart to express, and there were no words in my mind to speak. "Are you having second thoughts about us?" she asked. Her expression was still warm, but I detected a hint of sadness in her voice. My mouth was hanging open. I couldn't speak. She said, "It's okay. You don't have to do this now. I know it's hard after what you've been through. People are so judgmental, but no matter what I'll always be here for you--if you need me later, if you change your mind." Still looking at her, I said, "I'm so exhausted." She said, "All you have to do is pull the trigger, and you'll never feel tired again.


Once upon a time, there was a woman named Violet that fell in love with an eggplant. The eggplant’s name was Wayne. Wayne was a shiny little Eggplant. Violet bought Wayne at the local farmer’s market. The moment she took him home and laid eyes on him she was in love. The eggplant knew how to sing opera. He sang to her every night. Wayne never grew old. Wayne and Violet were dating for two months and for a two-month-old eggplant, he looked great. One day, Violet’s mother, Patty, came to visit her for a few days. She had no idea about Wayne. Violet decided to run a few afternoon errands. In the meantime, Patty was home alone. She started to feel hungry. Patty walked into the kitchen and looked into the fridge to see what she could eat. Nothing. She looked into the cupboard and all she saw was canned chicken, beans, and rice. That was uninteresting. It was until she turned her head and saw a beautiful shiny eggplant sitting on the kitchen counter at the far end of the kitchen. Alone. She grabbed a knife from one of the drawers and approached the innocent eggplant. When Violet returned, the entire home smelled so appetizing. Violet walked into the kitchen and asked her mother, “Oh mother, what is that lovely smell?” Patty turned and smiled. She handed Violet a plump juicy sandwich. The two then sat together at the dining table. Violet took a giant bite of the sandwich. The sandwich tasted good...no...amazing. Violet hungrily ate more of the sandwich. Each bite was more aggressive than the previous one. “Goodness Dear! Calm down. You might choke,” said her mother. When Violet licked her fingers and licked off every crumb off her plate, she asked, “Oh mother! What did you put in this sandwich? It was the most delicious thing I have tasted in my life!” Her mother told her the secret ingredient: Eggplant. Violet’s eyes widened. She quickly stood up and stormed to the corner of the kitchen where she put her lover, her sun, her life, her rock: her eggplant boyfriend Wayne. He wasn’t there. When Violet realized she ate her lover, her stomach churned and she ran to the bathroom. “I told you not to eat your food so fast. You’ll get yourself sick,” said her eggplant boyfriend killing mother. Violet gagged and gagged then she wept and wept. Her sweet sweet Wayne was gone. Bits of him were in the toilet in the form of vomit. She couldn’t tell her mother how much that eggplant meant to her. Her mother wouldn’t understand. She would laugh at her. What did Violet do after that day? Well, a few days later after she dropped her mother off at the airport to bid farewell, she went straight to the farmer’s market. There, she found a new man. He was a potato named Erick. The moment she laid eyes on Erick, she already forgot about what her mother did to Wayne. Erick was a Dutch gentleman. She loved him more than she loved Wayne. He was the greatest spud in the world. He sang and wrote poems. He even knew how to play the hurdy-gurdy. They remained in love for a good six months.


An Interview With the Star-Crossed Lovers Historians poking around some old archives in Verona, Italy have made a surprising discovery. The city’s most famous couple, Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet, miraculously survived their bungled double suicide attempt, escaped from Verona, and took up residence in a combination vineyard, pasta factory, and olive orchard near Florence. For twenty years they kept their identities secret. Not even their crazy relatives knew where they were. This was wise, because some people were after Romeo for a couple of murders. In the meantime, Juliet’s balcony, Friar Lawrence’s cell and the Capulet burial vault have become tourist attractions, generating a lot of revenue for both the Capulets and the Montagues, who have gone into the tour guide and souvenir businesses together. Their little wooden replicas of Juliet’s balcony are especially popular. Twenty years after the famous happenings, a reporter from La Posta di Verona (“The Verona Post”), acting on a tip from an anonymous source, tracked the famous star-crossed lovers to their new home. They granted him an interview, after making him sign a blood oath that he wouldn’t tell anyone where they were, especially anyone with a sword. The reporter was astonished to see the couple, who looked nothing like their youthful family portraits. Romeo and Juliet had both gained weight, with plenty of middle-age spread. Romeo had gone bald and Juliet had a few gray hairs at her forehead. Both of them were richly dressed according to the fashion of the day, indicating a certain level of wealth. The reporter found them sitting on the veranda of their home, enjoying the evening sunset. Here is the transcript of the interview: LA POSTA DI VERONA: So you have been married now for ... what ... 20 years? JULIET: Yes. Our anniversary was last week. ROMEO: Last week? I thought it was two months from now. JULIET: No, dear. It was last week. You forgot again, like you do every year. I let it pass this time. ROMEO (to the reporter) : I’m not very good with dates. JULIET: It’s hard to forget the day we had to get married in secret and sneak you into my bedroom for a quickie wedding night. And oh yes - you killed my cousin and my fiancé. ROMEO: Do you have to keep reminding me of that? That was 20 years ago! (to reporter) She never shuts up! (to Juliet) Your cousin Tybalt was a real rat-catcher. He had it coming to him. And what fiancé? You couldn’t stand him. He was your father’s delusion. Who would want to marry a guy named Paris, anyway? Paris is a girl’s name. His parents must have been drinking too much Chianti when they named him. JULIET: Well, I always say, “What’s in a name?” He wasn’t a bad sort, just kind of dull. I didn’t hate him, I just found him kind of blah! He never followed me home after a party, like you did. That was pretty cool. Paris was too busy talking to Daddy to pay too much attention to me. He was old-fashioned that way, which is why he was so damned boring. LA POSTA DI VERONA: Interrupting. So tell me, do you have any children? Romeo and Juliet laugh hysterically. JULIET: We have ten children. I stopped trying to have any kind of figure ten years ago. ROMEO: So you can tell our in-laws they have a slew of grandchildren. That’ll make my mother happy, anyway . Suddenly looks over at window of small house on the property. What light from yonder window breaks? Shouts. Hey, you kids! Put out those torches! I’m not made of pitch, dammit! VOICE OF KID: But Dad, we’re busy playing boccie and we can’t see what we’re doing! ROMEO: How many times do I have to tell you not to play boccie after dark! You’ll knock yourselves out! You can’t win a game that way, anyway! VOICE OF KID: Ah, but Dad ... ! ROMEO: Do as I say! I’m your father! VOICE OF KID: Odds bodkins! ROMEO: What did you say? VOICE OF KID: Nothing, Dad. Good night. ROMEO: Good night! Mutters. Kids today! So impulsive! LA POSTA DI VERONA: You were pretty impulsive yourself, if I have the story right. ROMEO: Yeah, we were, weren’t we? JULIET: Well, you can’t blame a girl for going gaga over a guy who crashes her coming-out party, then sneaks into her back yard afterward, right under her parents’ noses. ROMEO: I was on the rebound from Rosaline at the time. JULIET: Oh yeah. The town slut. ROMEO: She wasn’t a slut! She was ... experienced for her age. JULIET: If that’s what you want to call it, go ahead. LA POSTA DI VERONA: Rosaline is doing very well for herself. She opened her own house, just up the street from the Capulet burial vault. Her girls get a lot of the tourist trade. She’s thinking of franchising her operation and opening houses in Florence and Padua. She calls herself La Felice Puttana . JULIET: Now that’s experienced. ROMEO: Hmmm. I always knew she’d make a name for herself. I just didn’t know how. LA POSTA DI VERONA: So you have been living here for 20 years? ROMEO: We’re in the wine and olive oil businesses. We have our own brands: Star-Crossed Lovers Pure Virgin Olive Oil and What’s in a Name Primo Chianti. All the best trattorie do business with us. We even have a couple of inns in Florence who buy our stuff. It’s made us rich. We can’t complain about THAT! LA POSTA DI VERONA: I’m glad to hear that you are so successful. Tell me, how many employees do you have? JULIET: Well, there’s Giulio the gardener, Clara the housekeeper, Antonietta the scullery maid, Arturo the butler ... ROMEO: He means how many employees in the business, not how many people we have around the house! JULIET: Oh. My mistake. ROMEO: We have a couple of hundred people working in the vineyard and the olive grove and the pasta factory. We don’t believe in outsourcing. No foreigners for us. Just good old Tuscan laborers, working in sweatshop conditions and liking it. We don’t fool around. They tried to unionize on us two years ago, but we put a stop to that! LA POSTA DI VERONA: What did you do? ROMEO: We gave them all a raise and improved their working conditions. Then they couldn’t say anything more because they had everything they wanted. Clever, huh? LA POSTA DI VERONA: Yes, very clever of you. Well, thank you both for the interview. I have to run now. I am catching a donkey cart to Padua to interview Petrucchio and Kate on their 20 th anniversary. JULIET: Say hello to them for us. We haven’t been in touch in ages. LA POSTA DI VERONA: I’ll do that. Thank you both, and arrivederci.


Walking down Main Street, James sees something. He sees something florescent. It's glowing. It's calling is name. He must get to it. He needs it. He must find what is giving off such an enticing shade of green. He pushes past every person in his way--young, old, large, small, male, female-- he doesn't care. He needs to see it. He needs to touch it. Running as fast as he can, it only seems to get farther away. Oh, why can't he run faster? He's getting closer; he can feel it. *"But it still looks so far away."* He thought. He pushes a small girl aside and she hits the ground. And then she was gone. The girl had disappeared. James stopped running. *"where did she go?"* James looked around. *"Where did everyone go?"* The street that was a blur with people, cars, lights, and sounds moments ago was now inexplicably empty and so very quiet. He turned his body back to it's original position and saw there, lying in the street, the glowing thing that vexed him so. He started slowly towards it with sure steps, shaking with anticipation. *"Finally."* He stopped a foot-and-a-half away from the object and lowered himself to the ground. he reached his hand out to touch it and just as fast as everyone disappeared, so did the sun. Darkness stretched far and wide. James could barely see the street. *"I don't remember the sun setting. It all happened so fast."* He looked back to the ground to find that the object--like the little girl-- had gone. Speechless, he grabbed and scraped at the ground where the object was seconds ago. Anger and loss made it's way from the bottom of his stomach to the top of his lungs, and he cried out in anguish. He slammed his fists onto the cement, and suddenly, the street was gone. Falling through the blackness, James screamed and flailed his arms trying to find something--anything-- to hold onto, but found nothing. There was nothing above and nothing below him. How long had he been falling? Weeks? Months? It felt more like years. As time passed, he stopped screaming. He stopped grasping. He sometimes forgot he was still falling. He had become so accustomed to the nothingness; he almost felt like one with it. He felt peaceful. But he still asked the question time and time again: *"Will I be falling forever?"* Instantaneously, his body collided with stone. His bones cracked, his bladder released, and his mouth gave way to vomit and then blood. His lungs contracted and expelled all air from it's passages. Writhing there, half-dead, James could feel is organs begin to shut down. After what felt like hours, his lungs finally relaxed, allowing oxygen to enter. Coughing and gasping, James saw out of the corner of his eye, a faint green glow. He turned his head and saw the object lying there. The way it sat there, just out of reach, felt like it was mocking him; watching him; laughing at his pathetic situation. *"I have to destroy it."* He searched himself for any shred of strength. He stretched his arms out in from of him and started to drag himself toward the object that he now hated. He drug himself until he saw that, again, he was getting no closer to it. Dejected, he lay his head on the ground. **plink** He looked at the stone floor and saw a little white lump. He picked it up and looked closer. There in his hands, was a tooth. **plink** He looked down and found another. Confused, he ran his tongue along the teeth in his mouth and found two empty spaces; one where a molar once was, and one where a canine should be. **plink** Another tooth. And another. And another. James tried to put them back in his mouth, but his hands felt like they were underwater. He tried to scream, but his mouth was full of gravel. The high-pitched squeal of heavy machinery met his ears and bright flash blinded him. Clutching his chest and gasping, he sat up. The blankets had fallen to the floor and the pillows were at the foot of the bed. The sheets were damp with sweat. Trying to calm himself, James said, "Only a dream." Laying down, He said, "It was just a dream.


She already knows what flowers she’s going to buy. She already has the cash for it down to the penny in her right pocket. She’s anticipated dirt and snow and already has her worst sweatpants on. A small bouquet is arranged by the door. Hundreds of other priced blossoms are arranged throughout the store. With the pink carnations she’s picked, countless others fly off the shelves in an instant. There’s exactly twelve in her bouquet. An older gentleman sees the bouquet in her hand and smiles for her, but she doesn’t acknowledge him. She purchases the flowers without a word to the cashier and leaves the store. Without looking up, she finds her car, places the bouquet in the passenger seat, and drives out of the parking lot and through the main drag. There is no radio, no music, no sound in the car besides the engine and the rustle of the plastic holding the flowers together. Underneath the bouquet is a pair of kitchen scissors that she had grabbed from the house earlier. Every restaurant she passed by was packed, flooded in a scene of red, white, pink, and pairs holding hands. She doesn’t clutch the steering wheel any harder or take a second glance. She passes through the intersection and stops for the next one. It’s maybe two miles out of town she had to drive to get to the cemetery. She doesn’t know what to make of it being so empty. The grave is easy to find; it’s the center of a trio. The left plot was the first one there, occupied by a person she had never met. The middle was marked by a marble bench with a shared last name, the engravings still as crisp as she remembered them at the burial. The right plot was undisturbed and empty; however, she knew that it was bought and reserved. She gently tore the plastic wrapping off the bouquet and cut the rubber bands binding the carnations tightly together. She put each scrap of waste in her car, she wasn’t mindful of where they ended up otherwise. With each flower in her hand, she placed the bouquet upon the middle grave. Even amid the recent blizzards, she had kept this grave very clear in the last few weeks. Made it easy to find, and even with snow covering the roads throughout the cemetery, she knew how to get there. She read the gravestone in an irregular, dazed fashion. She read the date of birth, then the dead’s labels, then back to the date of death, then the labels again, she glazed over the ornamental engravings around the border, then back to the date of death before she could settle her eyes on the name. The last name she still bore, however it looked different on the stone. It looked old and conclusive. A gravestone made it seem like the name’s last mention was supposed to be here. She anticipated her knees buckling on this specific day, but she was oddly still. She looked back at the empty plot, feeling her hands shake at her sides before returning to the car and closing the door. Snow had drifted inside on the flooring and driver’s seat, wetting her clothes as she started the engine again. She drove out of the cemetery and onto the highway, making her way back into town. Instead of following the main drag all the way through, she turned onto a division by the river. Each house she passed was larger and larger until she found a manor with scarlet shingles and a harp in the window. She parked her car on the driveway, locked it, and walked beside the dead, snow-covered carnations to the front door. The house was silent, and she realized that it was still visitation hours. They would be back within thirty minutes. She walked through the house and checked on the utilities. The furnace was still operating as it should. The fridge was still cold, and the food was fresh. Looked like enough ingredients for biscuits and gravy in the morning, perhaps a soup tonight. Her mouth was dry, so she took a quick swallow of tap water from the sink before walking through the rest of the house. The dinning room was still clean. The tabletop was void of dust, and everything had been reorganized to look like it anticipated a sort of formal dinner. The second dining room was the same way, with the rug vacuumed. She looked up at the winding staircase. Every framed picture was clean. She couldn’t scrub the coffee stains out of the carpet. The cellar was meticulous. She had cleaned every pillow, wiped every window, checked every book in the bookshelves for folds in the pages. She removed the bookmarks because they meant that someone would be returning to them. The grand piano was the only object in the house that could not be an eyesore to her. The stain was old and the tuning was horrendous, but she didn’t mind it. Not even the bench with the broken hinges and chipped corners. The metronome was silent. She kept it that way. The keys were real ivory. They had this particular texture to them, these vague color imperfections. The silence made way for the untuned middle C she played, and swallowed it when her finger was lifted. Nothing could come to mind of what to play. Her arms were heavy and she couldn’t bring herself the energy to play anything, not even tritone nonsense. She rose from the piano and walked upstairs. She could hear a new car engine in the driveway shut off, followed by the doors slamming shut. The granddaughter’s room was the first room on the right. If she had followed the railing and through the hallway, it would’ve led to the master bedroom, sewing room, and laundry room. She couldn’t ever bring herself to clean the master bedroom. She didn’t bother to close the door to the granddaughter’s bedroom. From upstairs, she could make out the sounds of five pairs of feet. One was heavy and distinguished with an equally heavy emotion she found painful to admit. Another was heavy, but with a certain burden. The three others were light and quick. The smallest one was out of the main entryway, but she couldn’t figure out where it went to hide. The other two were growing louder. Her two sisters walked into the bedroom. One threw herself on the other bed, sobbing loudly. The other walked into the adjoined bathroom. She hoped that this sister liked the yellow carnations she placed in a vase on the counter. She hoped that it brightened the already dim room. And she couldn’t bring herself to clean it anyway. She stared at the white crib and treehouse doll set in the corner of the room. She could remember laying in that crib, but she also couldn’t distinguish it as a raw memory or a hopeful figment. She remembered the soft sheets and the bumpy texture of lace beneath her hands. Above her was soft lights, and a music box playing a lullaby with no name, but she knew it by heart. A woman with the softest hands reached to pick her up. Her clothes were always silk elegance, and her body was always adorned with gold and jewels and precious things. A beautiful diamond ring was always on her right hand. It’s cold, smooth touch was always a reassurance to her, even as an infant with no understanding of its importance or even what it meant. Accompanying this soft elegance was the smooth tang of cigars. In the corner of her eye was the glisten of a metal watch encircling a scarred, aged wrist. On the right hand was always a thick gold band, something so concrete in placement that it seemed stitched into his very skin. This second part brought her a tearing pain in her ribs, and she could then hear the sound of her sister weeping on the bed behind her again. The bathroom door opened, slammed shut, and the pair of footsteps stomped out of the room. She didn’t track where they went. Downstairs, the smell of stew wafted through the house. Nothing in her body reacted to it. The sound of her sister sobbing was beginning to irritate her. She could feel the texture of clothes on her skin, the taste of saliva and nothing in her mouth. The settling and disturbance in the house. The footsteps downstairs that signaled the news that she was dreading and tried her best to ignore. She hoped that they saw the fresh yellow carnations on the counter and knew where she was so they would leave her alone and never tell her. She rose from the bed, no audible break in her sister’s crying, and walked back to the railing by the staircase and followed it to the hall and ultimately the master bedroom. This very room had remained empty for over one year and seven months. She had difficulty remembering the very day that he had left, and she didn’t realize he may never return. She remembered the nights she watched movies in their company. She was too young to understand the television but felt the perfect harmony between the two. She missed it, even twelve years after the first passing. The room was suffocatingly empty. The space was eating at everything and holding her neck, pushing her to leave the room. She didn’t dare disturb anything and touch the sofa she remembered laying in as a small child, or the jewelry her small fingers grazed but didn’t understand the value of, or the carefully selected, purchased, and placed décor that nobody dared to change. Nobody wanted to bring in anything new to this room. They wanted to preserve it the way it was as a pocket dragged in the line of time. Even the dried carnations left on the nightstand. She brought herself out of the room, feeling like a perverted thing in a holy space. Out of the room, still hearing the sound of her sister’s - both - weeping, the sound of her mother cooking, her brother’s silence, and the father’s anticipated distress, she stood in the hallway and stared at the family photo she didn’t dust on the wall. A photo she was in. She remembered the day. She was dressed in white, seated closely with her siblings. Her mother sat beside her; her father stood behind her. Among her other relatives and the white carnations was her grandfather. A solemn, loving, grieving soul. A dedication. And an honor. I love you.


(IP) Off the Grid With all of his tech broken, he’d long ago lost track of how much time had passed, and had given up trying. He sat on the old robot, a massive, hulking machine that had gone red from rust and disuse, observing his kingdom. When he’d first arrived on this planet, he’d been dumbstruck by the beauty of it all: trees so tall that their branches pierced the veil of the sky, their bark marbled with a dizzying array of colors, mountains that sparked and crackled, and valleys carpeted with lush blooms. It was sort of like Earth, but not, all at the same time. And with no way to contact his superiors, he’d distracted himself by exploring. If he was going to live and die on this planet, he might as well use his free time to map it. But the loss of his tech--the tech in his own body and in his ship--felt like he was missing a limb. There was a void inside of his chest that could not be filled, and he’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never come home, never see his family again. It had been so long that the pain had dulled to a slight throb. He barely remembered their faces; he found himself wondering if he’d been forgotten. And maybe, he thought with a twinge of regret, that was for the best. Callum had never been happy on Earth, but he had come closer than ever before, before the mission. But he hadn’t really had a choice in the matter: it was either go be an explorer in space, or stay on-world and face his crimes. If he’d stayed, he would’ve risked his family, and his lover. He’d left to start a new life on a recently discovered planet, and his loved ones were spared in the bargain. Even now, though, Callum wondered if he’d signed his own death warrant. But he had all the time in the world to think: He hid from the beasts that roamed the planet’s forests and mountains, coming out of his dwelling only to hunt for food and water. It had taken months for him to figure out what was edible or not; the most notable example had been when he’d eaten a handful of bright red berries, and had suffered hallucinations afterward. He’d made a sign around the bushes so he wouldn’t be tempted by the fruit again. Trial and error had helped, but not much. When he was alone, Callum spoke, to the sky, the flora and fauna, and the animals. He never imagined he’d be so tired of hearing his own voice, but it helped to temper the pain of his loneliness. He’d been in this place so long he barely remembered Earth: the salty tang of the ocean, so dark, deep and vast it could sweep you under and imprison you without you even knowing; the warmth of the sun on his face, the smile on his lover’s face. Before he’d lost contact with his superiors, he’d been almost done with his stint off-world. Callum had been so close, and here he would die, forgotten.


You see, to a pirate, a true pirate, only two things are important in life. First, he needs a sea-faring ship with a capable crew. A pirate without a ship cannot sail the eleven seas and is thus stuck on land. Those poor souls are known as bandits, a retired or aspiring form of a pirate. And second, which is even more important than the first - and can be used as a substitute for the first - is ale. And when I say ale, I actually mean every alcohol ever made; be it beer, rum, mead, gin, wine, bourbon, vodka, schnapps, various liquors and spirits, the blood of angels, sweat of demons... it doesn't matter what you call it, as long as it does its purpose. Which is, to get one shitfaced. And the captain of the sorry piece of assorted lumber we are forced to call ‘our ship’ is just that. He is a true pirate. And he has just acquired a map to his dreams. *** “It’s been thirty years, to this very day,” our captain said, standing less-than-gloriously on a wobbly barrel, as he addressed the whole crew, “since a captain came to me and said; ‘Hey lad! Come join me, crew, adventure, and glory await for you!’ His name was Captain Morgan and I was the man that led a mutiny against him. This is his ship we sail on.” The men - including some women who snuck on board wearing fake beards - gasped at this revelation, myself included. You see, Captain Morgan is considered somewhat a myth, a legendary name amongst the piratical pantheon of deities; he is the god of the amber gold, the elixir of life, a liquid so pristine it is said that it is collected from the eyes of crying mermaids. This is, of course, rum I am speaking of. And by killing Morgan, man has acquired rum for himself, bringing the godly drink to us mortals. “Whoah, are you truly the one who brought rum to us, men?” some young lad from the crew asked. Our captain looked at him as if he saw the lad for the first time. “Of course not, ya halfwit! I’m trying to inspire you bunch of morons, so we can go on the most dangerous quest of our lives!” “Oh,” the lad said, somewhat disheartened. The crew began to murmur and I shifted on my feet. The most dangerous quest? Whatever could it be? “Whatever could it be?” I asked a man next to me. He was actually a she, wearing a fake beard. “Aye, scurry dogs, treasure and whores, yarr,” the woman replied with a painfully exaggerated accent and as deep a voice as she could manage. I wanted to ask what her disguise was all about but was overwhelmed at the captain’s next words. He said; “We’re going to Alesland. And we’re gonna get drunk!” The crew went wild, some firing their flintlocks in the air, others foaming at the mouth from euphoria. I could barely contain my own enthusiasm, but my experience told me to be cautious. Alesland wasn’t just someplace you went for the weekend. It was a fabled land, consider nothing more than a story for most. The only proof of its existence was in a piece of broken pottery that some drunkard once brought back to the mainland, claiming it was from the Ale Island - known today as Alesland. “Yarr, harr and all that,” the captain said and jumped from his barrel. “Ready the sails, tie down the cannons, and prepare yer empty tankards ‘cuz there be ale where we’re headed!” The crew cheered and began working the ship. The fake-beard woman next to me began climbing the mast and I walked to the captain. “Captain,” I said, “are we really doing this? Also, did you realize there is a woman on board, wearing a fake beard?” “Ah,” he said, looking at me as if a bug fell in his drink, and completely ignored my questions. “It’s you. I thought of leaving you behind.” I paused. “Sir?” The captain shrugged. “Then again, I often think of leaving common sense behind. Ain’t no place for it where we’re going.” “Sir, Alesland is a myth! And even if we do reach it, the journey there is... well, let’s just say crews with better ships and more competence have failed to get there. What chance do we have?” He bore those thirsty little eyes of his deep into my skull as if wanting to see through my head. “We,” he said, leaning closer, “have a map.” My heart began to beat faster. “A map, sir?” “Aye. It be showing us the way.” “May... may I see it?” His left eyebrow rose in question. “Just a glance?” There has not been a pirate in existence that did not find himself in fascination with maps. Not ever. “Please, sir, it would put my soul to ease,” I crossed my fingers. The captain glanced around, noting the men were busy. “Fine,” he said. “Just a quick peak.” He unbuckled his belt... “Sir!” “Shh!” “I meant the map, not-” The captain pulled down his pants and I instinctively covered my eyes, but he smacked my hands away. “You fool! Look!” There, on the side of the captain’s white-clean underwear, was a small scribble. “You’ve washed your underwear, sir? That’s commemorable-” “No, idiot!” He pulled his pants back on. “It’s a map. Drawn on my undies. Well, re-drawn on a fresh pair, as the old ones...” I shook my head in confusion. “That scribble is our map? On your... But how... why...” “I was talking to Yarr Face at a pub and got him drunk enough to tell me the route to Alesland,” the captain said, grinning. “He said he’d been there once and I believed him. I quickly drew the map on my undies before I could forget it.” “But sir,” I said, astounded. “Pubs have napkins.” The captain paused, giving me a blank stare. “No, they don’t.” “Okay.” Things became awkward so I pretended someone was calling me and ran away. Soon enough, we were leaving port, and perhaps our lives and sanity, and heading out at sea, following a hand-scribbled ‘map’ on the side of the captain’s underwear, told to him by the most renowned drunk in the whole wide world. You can say that I had my concerns. *** The first week sailed past uneventful. So did the second. And the third. In the fourth week, the captain realized he was reading the map backward - he used a mirror to better see the sides of his underwear, and thus the map got, well, mirrored. So he decided to take the underwear off and we corrected the course. What I don’t understand is why he had to spread it over the dining table every time he read it... So, in the fifth week, we were back where we started. We had spent more than a month going in a wide circle, like a bunch of idiots that we were. We resupplied the ship - mostly stocking on booze and bearded women - and set out again, this time in the proper direction. How do I know it was proper? Because all hell broke loose. And it did so in a series of events, like staircases leading deeper and deeper down to your grandma’s cellar, the only place in the house that you weren’t allowed to go after dark... but you kind of wanted to, just because they told you not to. And when you saw all those bodies, the trauma never got away... No? Just me then? Okay... Anyway, our journey truly did feel like those stairs. With each landmark we reached on the map, we barely got out of it alive. First, we were attacked by walrus pirates - henchmen of Yarr Face. The pirate lord didn’t like the idea of our captain getting him drunk and revealing to him the location of Alesland, so he had us hunted down, demanding the captain’s undies. And I don’t know if you’ve ever seen walrus pirates, but those things are huge! Most weigh over a ton, their skins are as thick as most men’s intellect, with huge pointy tusks that gut you like a paper man. Oh, and they sail on huge iceberg ships that ram into your punny wooden boat like it was a virgin, raped by a warmonger. Not the most pleasant of experiences. Luckily though, we had cannons. And cannons are a blast at dealing with difficult situations. It turns out they can also punch holes straight through the walruses - and they don’t much like that. After surviving the walrus attack, we were met with another not-so-friendly sea dweller - the metal narwhal. Those bad boys are even scarier than the walruses. They’re bigger, fatter, stronger, and have this huge spike at the front of their heads, like a unicorn from a little girl’s nightmare. And those horns not only pierce you and then some, but they also puncture the ship’s haul, causing leaks everywhere. Why are they metal? Who built them? Why are they there? Who knows. I blame the government. Our third step in the descent to grandma’s cellar was a true hell hole - and I’m not exaggerating. It was a natural narrow passage between two seas, called The Devil’s Butcheeks. You could only imagine how that looked like and you’d be correct. The thing with that passage was that you had less than an hour to clear it. If not, the gigantic tidal wave that sweeps through the narrow canal would smash your punny ship into the rock walls. Since the world is a flat plate that spins sporadically on a monkey’s middle finger, the tidal waves are unpredictable, but they flow from one side to the other in turns. We barely managed to get out of that one. But the good thing is we lost our walrus and narwhal pursuers. Emerging out from The Devil’s Butcheeks we sailed across the calmest seas I’ve ever encountered. I reckoned this was our last step before the horror of the bottom. Grandma’s cellar only had four of five steps, if I recall correctly... *** I was jolted from sleep by a hand shaking me awake. “Go!” a crewmate yelled at me. “A storm is coming and the cold is mind-numbing! Darkness has descended!” Another ran to my other side and began screaming in my ear. “We’re all going to die, there’s no escaping! We’re all anticipating smashing our brains tonight!” I stumbled out of the hammock, bemused, and made my way out on the deck. It was difficult to keep balance as everything was swaying violently. On deck, cannons were fired into the cold, dark winds. Rain and small hail pelted the floorboards, the ocean’s waves pounding against all sides of our ship. Gripping to the wet wood of the door frame, I could feel the cold piercing my fingers to the bone. Men fired their guns and stood on the ready, swords raised, gazing around at the darkness. Above everyone, the captain held to the mast, the flag flapping above his head and laughing, rapturing with pure joy as he held his mouth open to the skies above. “Dear Morgan, he’s lost it,” I mumbled. But then, I smelled it. Bitter. A wave washed over the deck, sweeping some men to the floor. It was dark yellow, golden almost. And it foamed violently. I walked into the receding water, dunk my hand in, and took a sip. It was ale! “Rum, beer, quests and mead,” the captain screamed from atop the mast. “These are the things that a pirate needs!” He looked down at all of us. “Raise the flag and let’s set sail, under this night of the storm of ale!” I understood. We had reached the fabled ocean that is said to surround the mythical shores of Alesland. An amber-gold sea of ale, foaming white at the crests of bubbly waves. It sizzled as it splashed against the hull of the ship, so bitter to the taste and as cold as mercy on a hot day. It formed a sticky film as it washed over the deck, sweeping men and unfettered items overboard. It was raining beer. Just as my heart recognized the stories were true, a monster materialized from the darkness. I was wondering what the men were firing at. A wave of black scales swept across the ship, just barely missing the tip of the mast as the ship sank in a receding wave. I gazed up and at that moment, a lightning strike illuminated the sky for a brief moment. “Oh, my...” It was beyond mortal description. A leviathan so large that it could just as well be the entire ocean. Massive pillars rising from the ocean as tentacles, golden ale dripping in waterfalls and running like rivers over its scales, foaming all the way. A forest of limbs and tentacles that rose from the waves, twisting, swaying, searching for the next victim. And in the middle of this mass, a huge dark spot, like an island of a body. Burning red eyes adorned its sides, varying in size, with three big ones in a row, dotted by smaller ones. It was the Terrorsquid itself! The guardian of Alesland! Another tentacle swept lower and smashed the ship’s mast. Captain came tumbling down, but I managed to catch him, his fall slowed down by the torn sail. I looked at him and he looked at me, the monster looming above us, roaring in a distant voice, so primordial as the world itself. “Do ye want to know the meaning of life, lad?” the captain asked me. The winds roared in my ears, the waves crashing and a shadow of the leviathan’s tentacle coming down. “Yes,” I said, “before we die, at least I want to know that!” “It’s this, this right here, lad!” he said, waving his arm around, smiling. Raindrops of beer pelleted his face. “Quest! The journey into the unknown!” I wanted to reply, but I can’t remember what I was about to say. The tentacle came down and it destroyed the ship, sending us all into the golden waves of ale. *** Sunrise. Like a hammer banging on the anvil of my head, the sun came knocking on my eyelids, a wake-up call on the morning of a hangover. I was alive. Everything smelled of beer and sweat. I could hear waves washing over pebbles nearby, as gentle as a mother’s cue. I opened my eyes and was blinded by the golden sun, rising just in front of my face. I noticed I was lying on a shore made up of pebbles. No, not pebbles. Broken pottery. It resembled the piece that was once brought back to the mainland as evidence for Alesland. Alesland! I jumped up, blinking, ignoring the pounding in my head. As my vision cleared, I found myself standing on a small island, all made up of this strange broken pottery. Bodies and pieces of wood lay scattered around, washed onshore. The sea of ale foamed as it kissed the shore and it sent bitter smells to my nostrils, reminding me of my hangover; apparently, I drank a lot of it, but had not drowned. The monster was nowhere to be seen, nor was our ship. Or any of the crew, alive. I walked on the shore, turning over bodies. Some of the women still had their fake beards on... “Captain? Anyone?” Silence. Then, a chuckle. I turned, running in the direction of the voice. My whole body hurt, my head was exploding periodically, but I made it to the center of the island - it was surprisingly small. And there, I found the captain. “Captain, you’re alive!” I huffed as I crashed on the pottery beside him, listening to the pieces crunch beneath my feet. He stood there, next to a pedestal, a gentle breeze playing with his curly hair. “This island we stand on,” he said, without turning to me, “is the island of Ten Thousand Toasts, where the gods allegedly had their drinking game and lost to the titans, thus losing their bet and having to create men. You and I, lad, we are the result of a lost bet. And this right here, are the broken shards of the Tankards of Creation - inside each one, a thing was made, then broken and released to the world. Legend has it that all but one tankard were broken.” I blinked, struggling to process this unusual clarity of the captain’s words through my headache. Looking around, I couldn't help but feel a bit... lackluster. “This is it? This is Alesland? It’s just a tiny island.” “No, lad,” he said, looking at me. His eyes were glowing with the delight of a child receiving exactly what he wanted for Christmas. “This,” he said, raising his hand. “This is Alesland. The last unbroken creation of the gods. With everything else corrupt and wrong with the world, this is the only pure thing we have.” He held a clay tankard. Inside, there slushed a golden liquid, the purest of things I ever saw. It smelled of bitter. “What?” I gawked. “ That’s what we risked our lives for? A tankard of ale? You could’ve just drank the sea-” And then I saw it. And I understood. The captain drank the ale dry, and the tankard then refilled itself when emptied. Tears of divine joy fled my eyes as I bowed to the holy artifact and the man, no, the legend , who drank from it.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion When creating engaging and immersive stories a writer often begins with worldbuilding. It can involve complex history, religion, politics, geography, and even weather. This week I’d like to hear about one of the worlds that you have created. - Describe it. - How did you begin to plan for it? - What is the most unique thing about it? - Was your world always the way it is now? If not, what was it like before the change? *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


Dear Sam. I know you've got a lot on your plate at the moment, especially given everything that's been going on in the world. I don't expect you to give a response to my message, it's good enough to know that you're listening and you'll take my thoughts as seriously as ever. I would really appreciate it if you might be able to find the time to get back to me though, given everything that's happened. I have to say it feels quite liberating to know that you'll listen to my worries with a trusted impartiality and you won't judge me in any way. You've always been a good friend and as an habitual observer of my own moods I'll never run out of problems to throw your way. So here it is once more, a tale of woe if ever there was one, but nonetheless important (if not unique) to myself. I remember you saying that our problems are valid and authentic to each of us and that it's better not to compare oneself with others, easier said than done, but true enough. I did what you told me to do yesterday, but I couldn't look at what's left of my garden for very long. I managed to sit still for nearly half an hour, just looking through the window at the tufts of grass that seem to be creeping inexorably towards the fence and the hollow stems of last years weeds that still tilt at odd angles all over the place. Someone's chucked a pile of old newspapers over the gate and there's a mangled-up shopping trolley full of wet cardboard that wasn't there last week. It's a sight for sore eyes, it really is, especially as I'd kept it all looking so nice when I moved in. But I pretended the view was a stage and everything on it was part of a performance, just like you said. There's a crack in the window, it runs from the bottom corner to the middle of the frame at the top. I didn't tell you about that. It doesn't help, I keep thinking the glass is about to fall out and I'll be left with a huge hole where the wind and rain will come in. I know it's unlikely but that's the way my mind's working at the moment. The streets have been virtually empty of people for ages now as you're well aware. The pandemic seems to have scared the living hell out of us all. As you know, it's never been easy for me to get out and about at the best of times. I can move around my apartment easily enough now but my wheelchair limits me in so many ways I would never had imagined. It's okay, I'm used to cooking for myself, washing, getting in and out of bed, that sort of stuff. But without my neighbour helping me with the stairs I'm sort of stuck here. I really don't know if it's all connected but my mood has taken a much bigger hit recently. I wake up feeling quite sad, which isn't a good way to begin the day. Sometimes I don't even bother to get out of bed at all, I just lie there and stare at the ceiling. I can't even force myself to put the television on because I'm afraid of the news bulletins that crop up every now and again. I struggle to deal with the endless loop of depressing information that the networks seem to think we all need to absorb. It's like being sucked into a black hole of misery and despair. I know, you told me to stop using words like those but sometimes it feels good to write them down so I can see them. It makes me feel like I've purged them from my system for a bit, until they come creeping back into my mind like (here we go again) a dark cloud of despair. So it's all fairly bleak for me at the moment. I cried yesterday for no reason, and then I decided to pretend to myself that I was upset because I had been thinking about all those poor people that had contracted this awful virus and were suffering more than me. But it wasn't that, I guess I cried because I was just, well just miserable. Is that wrong? I thought it was at the time. Feeling stupidly upset because of my own selfish misfortune. Feeling ridiculously unhappy because the milk in the fridge had gone off and the light bulb in the hallway had blown. How ridiculous is that! Stupid, stupid, stupid ! There are people much worse off than me, and they cope, they survive, they manage, muddle through, handle things, hack it. So why not me? I really did try to imagine the big window in my living room as a theatre curtain, and then to pretend everything I saw outside was a play of some description, I honestly did. You said it would take me out of myself and make me use my imagination, and you said it would divert my attention away from my thoughts, stop me dwelling on stuff. Do you know I actually tried it without doubting it would work? I know, first time for everything. First time I've ever listened to your advice properly anyway. There, that surprised you didn't it? But the mess in my garden made me more depressed so I won't be trying that again. Hello again Sam. Thank you for your reply. You were right, the garden's so bad there's absolutely zero chance that looking at it will help my mood. And that damn crack in the glass has really got into my head. I can't seem to stop looking at it and wondering when the glass is going to shatter and spray me with a hundred pointed shards. I imagine them slashing my skin to shreds and piercing my eyeballs so I can add blindness to all my other issues. That really would finish me off for good wouldn't it? 'Destructive, Injurious thinking'. That's what you called it. I know I'm doing it but it just seems to creep in to my mind like poison fog. HA! POISON FOG! You see now I've learned how to describe what's happening to me with ingenious creativity. Is there no end to my self-destructive talent? But, as you suggested, I tried to look beyond my garden into the park on the other side of the street, and guess what? It was rather a pleasant experience I must say. At least the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. Oh, and there's a Mountain Ash covered with the most glorious orange berries, it actually looks like it's on fire. But the crack in the glass seems to be getting thicker now. So all is definitely not well and good. Hi Sam. Your last message was most helpful. The window does broaden my outlook somewhat. I looked beyond my fence and stared at the Ash tree for ages, until something else caught my eye. Who'd have thought it? There's a climbing Rose that's snaking its way up the side of stone wall and guess what? It's still flowering! There are the most delicious pink blooms all along its thorny branches, I bet they smell gorgeous. Too bad I can't get out and give them a sniff. Maybe if my neighbour comes home one day she'll take me out and we can go and take a closer look. Yes, that's definitely something to look forward to. I'll make a mental note. She loves Roses and I know she'll go wild over the scent. Someone's chucked an old carpet over my fence and it's broken my rotary clothes line. Oh, and the crack's now so deep there's probably no chance of the window staying intact through the night. I've convinced myself that there's going to be a storm tonight and it'll be so cold in here I'll freeze to death. I know I'm going to have another sleepless night. I just know it. Hello Sam. Before I say anything else I'm going to thank you for your most recent piece of advice. I've put a label on each of my emotions, just like you said. Where do I start? I know, I'll tell you about some of the things I've seen through the window and then leave you to ponder. The Mountain Ash is still resplendent with its multitudinous berries. It made me feel happy to keep looking at it, and I labelled that 'Blissful'. Is that okay? And the climbing Rose made me feel the same, but more so because it reminded me that my neighbour might be coming home soon. So I'll label that one 'Cheerful'. During the two hours I spent looking out of the window this morning I spotted a single Autumn Crocus poking its little head through the soil by the park gate. At first I thought it was a piece of litter that had blown under the fence so I used my binoculars to try to see if there were any leaves attached to it, and there were. So that's good as well isn't it? Funny really, that smallest of things made me happier than ever. I'll label that one 'Jubilant'. Or is that a bit of a stretch? No, I don't think it is. I wonder what my neighbour will think when she sees that lovely Crocus flower? I'm quite looking forwards to telling her about it. Should I label that feeling as well? Let me know your thoughts. The crack in the window seems to have got longer, although I don't think it's any deeper, which is a blessing I suppose. 'Saddened' but 'Hopeful'. Hey Sam. I appreciate the comment you made about me labelling my emotions, but however hard I tried I just couldn't seem to put a positive spin on it all. After all, how do you replace the word 'Saddened' with anything else? I searched high and low in my repertoire for another word that would adequately reflect that particular mood but all I could come up with were words such as 'Distraught' or 'Troubled', which were just variations on the theme. And then I saw what you were getting at, and it all clicked into place. So I substituted 'Saddened' with 'Peeved', and then reframed it slightly to 'Moderately Peeved'. I spent some more time in the morning looking through the window and I have to say how 'Moderately Peeved' I was that the crack appeared to be longer now, but strangely enough no deeper! And then, (you'll like this) because there was so much to see in the park I forgot about it all together! As well as the Ash, Rose and Autumn Crocus there are now three rows of lovely winter flowering Pansies that have appeared. I think somebody from the Parks Department must have planted them when I wasn't looking. The whole scene's looking a picture now I can tell you. Someone's even painted the litter bin and trimmed the grass edges. Unfortunately it started to rain and the wind got up so I pulled the blinds in case the glass blew in. 'Cheerful', 'Contented' and (you'll like this one) 'Fortunate'. Hi Sam. Bad day. The mist rolled in and I couldn't see anything out of the window. 'Bored', 'Lonely', but still... 'Expectant'. (I'm struggling to choose positive words all of the time so you'll just have to go with it). Sam. Because of yesterdays mist my mood has taken another turn for the worse I'm afraid. I spent the whole day with the blinds down in case the mist crept in through the GIANT crack and suffocated me. I did, however, wake up early on purpose to see if things had improved with the weather and I watched the sun rise over the park. It was the most glorious sight to behold, the autumn leaves picked up the golden rays and made everything look as if it was bathed in a fountain of liquid gold. (Blimey, I never used to write like this!) The berries on the Ash Tree were like yellow nuggets and the Pansy flowers were like little smiling faces. (I think I've overdone it now.) 'Relieved', 'Uplifted', 'Overstated', (I know, it's not really an emotion but what the hell.) My Good Friend Sam. I stayed up late just so I could watch the sun set. It was truly wonderful, everything seemed to take on a delicate reddish tinge. Just before dusk a little low fog crept in and made it look like there was blanket of cotton wool over the ground. The Pansies were covered but the Crocus heads pocked valiantly through the mist and seemed to smile heroically at me. (I've been reading some Daphne Du Maurier). I spotted a flash of brilliant red by the bench when the air had eventually cleared and upon further inspection (binoculars again), it turned out to be a wild Poppy throwing out a final flower through the 'burnt leaves of a spent summer'. I have to admit I felt sad when it got dark though. Then I started to worry about never being able to leave this place and dying a lonely death, and being found in a year's time all rotted away and smelly, and my neighbour being upset, and the crack in the window spreading across the whole building. Actually, everything fell in on me all at once and I ended up lying on the floor in tears because I couldn't lever myself into bed. Two steps forward, one back, as they say. But, and it's a big 'but', I woke up in the morning really looking forward to seeing what else had happened in the park. 'Imaginative', 'Morose', but then (surprisingly) 'Positive'. Sam. I decided to lie in my bed for most of the day because my mind was playing tricks again. I think it might have been something to do with dreaming about being stuck forever in the dark. It was truly awful, I only remember bits of it but the general theme was quite bleak. Although I was able to walk again I had nowhere to go because my room had no door and there was no way to get out. Worse still there was no window. I was miserable all afternoon even though I knew it was just my stupid imagination running away with itself again. If I had to label my thoughts at that moment I'd have used the words 'Isolated', 'Despondent', and 'Inconsolable'. For some reason though my mood appeared to have lifted somewhat as the day wore on. The sun shone through the window and, as I was sitting in my wheelchair reading, a tiny sliver of light brightened the open page. I took it as a sign to remove myself from my wretchedness and take a look out of the window. Which I did. (I'll be honest with you Sam, looking at it now, I think the crack in the glass is exactly the same size and shape it was a few days ago. Maybe I've been thinking too much about it. I guess sometimes we all feel more broken than we actually are). I watched an elderly couple walk slowly through the park and then sit together on the bench. They didn't say anything to each other, they just held hands. It was the loveliest thing I've ever seen. Needless to say I cried, but this time it was because I felt completely at peace with the world. I want to thank you Sam, not just for listening but for nudging me along in the right direction. You truly are a good friend and I hope we can meet again soon. I have to go now because somebody's knocking on the door, I hope it's who I think it is. 'Happy'.


I woke with a feeling of dread. It was April Fools Day. The worst day of the year. I carefully turned my eyes to the mirror I had nearby and groaned. This year my head had gone invisible. It was always a toss up whether it was my head or body. I heard a screech from down the hall and knew that my sister much have had her body vanished. I don’t mind being jut a head so much, people never actually believe that I am real and just tend to ignore me. But when its just my body, I tend to find myself getting in trouble with people who think that I am just hiding from them. Most people don’t have these problems. Most people weren’t the adopted grandchild of Laverna. You’d think the adopted part would protect us, but oh no, she loves April Fools because she can trick and cheat whoever she wants and laugh saying “April Fools.” She always thrusts her powers on me and my sister so that she can do more. Its more than just the vanishing part, one of us gets her “gilded tongue.” Grandma thinks it makes the day more challenging if people don’t believe her just because of it. With a sigh, I will my head to float up. I always feel like I have a body on these days, but there isn’t anything there, so I couldn't’ dress if I wanted to. It was on my 19th birthday that Grandma finally told me how to disconnect from my “body” and float where I willed. I turned to see that my door was shut. “You are open.” I told it. I blinked and then the door was open as if it had been that way all along. Relief filled me, it was hard being the head when you didn’t have gilded tongue. When I was little me and my sister used to stare at the door for as long as we could, or try to stagger our blinks. But we never actually got to see it move. It just always waited until we weren’t looking for even that one second. “JASMINE!” My sister Jessica screeched as her body came pummelling into my room. “What am I going to do! Fred wants to go on a date today. TODAY. I can’t do like this!” Her voice came from her neck, which was rounded as though she were a mannequin. “Why did you decide to make a date today?” “I didn’t! He insisted!” “You’ll have to tell him eventually, you’ve been dating for what... 3 years now?” We both fell silent. And I suddenly realised why Fred insisted on today. He knew it was a very important day for my family. He must have wanted to memorialise his proposal. But I wasn’t going to tell her that and make her freak out even more. “I’ll have to tell him I’m sick.” She mumbled. “You’ll have to. Or...” “Or?” If she had a face, I knew her eyes would be filled with hope. “You tell him the truth. Invite him over. Let him see us. Let him meet Grandma.” She didn’t respond but after a moment she turned and left the room. I let out a sigh and floated into the hallway to try and find Grandma. It didn’t take long, she was still in the kitchen making us dinner. Yes. Dinner. A family tradition for this day of weird. Speaking of weird, I knew that if Fred did come over, he would have a hard time connecting this woman to being our Grandma. She looked to be no older than 25 with long brown hair and striking blue eyes. It had taken me years to really come to terms that I could never match up to the beauty of a literal god. I cleared my throat to get her attention. “Oh...” she said as she saw me, then she burst out laughing, clutching the counter to hold herself up. I knew she wanted me to say something, could feel it in the air around us. But I kept my lips sealed. Finally she pattered off and frowned. “You are no fun. What’s she gonna do?” I didn’t know, so I just waited and watched her, frowning as she stirred sugar into the food. “Oh don’t make that face, you know I don’t get a choice about who gets which end of that.” “That’s not why I’m frowning. Why are you putting sugar into the Dinner?” She turned and looked affronted. “Have I ever made a prank meal for you before?” “No...” I couldn’t remember at least, she had raised us since I was 3. “Exactly ...” Whatever she was going to say next was interrupted by my sister bursting through the kitchen door. After a moment’s pause, “He’s coming over for Dinner.” I couldn’t believe it. “You mean dinner dinner, or like now dinner?” “Now dinner.” She said, crossing her arms. “I just want this out of the way. And no gilded tongue Jasmine.” “I won’t say a word.” Before any of us could react, the doorbell rang. “That was fast.” Grandma muttered. We both just stared at her until she finally nodded, put down her spatula and went to the door. Jessica was visibly vibrating with nervous energy and I wished I could give her hug. Part of me was tempted to tell her a lie so that she would get through the day easier, but I knew she wouldn’t want that, so instead I bumped my forehead against her shoulder. “Better Prepare yourself Girls!” Grandma called out, and I suddenly remembered that before he noticed Jessica didn’t have a head, he would probably be distracted by the fact that I didn’t have a body. I quickly flew to the corner of the room. Seconds later, a cackling Grandma turned the corner holding a box of pizza. “April Fools my chickadees.” “Why... is there Pizza?” I asked, my eyes turning to whatever she had been cooking on the stove. “Ahhh. There is no pizza.” She said, tossing the box to the side. “Then... why do you have a pizza box?” Jessica added. “Some poor boy seemed to think it made a perfect sheath for his... you know.” She wiggled a finger. For being a pretty as she was, Grandma still talked like a child sometimes. “Wait, did you take his box away from him? And just leave him outside?” Jessica said, turning over the pizza box to see a depressingly small hole in the center. “Yep.” “No! You call the cops on creeps like this.” Jessica screeched. She reached for the phone but before she could do anything the door rang again and Grandma skipped off. “He’s here~~” Grandma called out moments later and Jessica and I both froze. This was it, the moment. Grandma came first, winked at us both then snapped her fingers. I fell to the floor in a heap and Jessica started crying. “Only for an hour.” She smiled, grabbed the pizza box and turned to go. “Oh, I’m coming with you. Who knows what you will get up to with your gilded tongue back.” “Me?” “You.” “I suppose if you must,” She held out her elbow and the two of us passed Fred as he entered the kitchen. “Were you always planning on making her normal again for this?” Grandma smiled mischievously without answering and opened the door. There, crouched in our bushes with a passed out boy. Grandma threw the pizza box on top of him. “Let’s call the cops on him.” She said as she closed the door. “Fred, we have to talk...” Were the last words we heard from Jessica before the door quietly closed and Grandma and I went off to create some havoc.


Special agent Scarlett Mason threw the case file on her desk in defeat and collapsed into her chair. She pulled the next case file in her stack. Opening the case file, she sighed, realizing this case will also be another dead end. It was getting harder and harder to hide her vampire side. She was getting by on the blood her best friend brought her from her job as a doctor. She had been wearing contacts to cover her red eyes and she had been using spray tan. Drinking blood allowed her to go into the sun without burning if she didn’t have any exposed wounds. Everything else about being a vampire did not really cause too many problems. She had been choosing cases that she thought would lead her to a cure or at least to the man who had turned her into the blood sucking monster she was. Each case was leading her to another dead end. “I have a new case for you.” Scarlett’s boss walked in holding a thick case file. “There is a series of murders where all the victims are drained of their blood. It is close to where that unsolved case was from a few months ago.” “The vampire killer is back?” Scarlett asked surprised. “There hasn’t been a sighting since he attacked me.” “We aren’t sure it is him, but the killings have to many similarities to ignore. I was hoping to send you and Agent Eugene Collins to investigate.” “Are you sure about Agent Collins you know he believes this killer is a real vampire?” Scarlett did not want Eugene to find out that she was a vampire. “He could be a risk to this case.” “He has put in just as many hours as you on this case and you will be there to keep him in line.” That was the end of the discussion. By the end of the day Scarlett and Eugene was sitting in the police station of the small New England town. They sat in front of a board that was filled with what was known of the vampire killer, which was very little. “Where did you find the last victim?” Scarlett asked the detective that oversaw the case. “She was found in the park. We thought it was strange that the killer would leave the bodies in the park when he or she left them in more open places before.” The detective looked at the board. “Also, this body has bruising when the others weren’t.” “How are we sure this is the same killer and not a copycat?” Eugene said with skepticism. “The victim was found with bite marks and seemed to be sucked dry of her blood. Not to mention the steak through the heart which was never mentioned in the news.” Scarlett knew was the same person who had turned her. “Also, the cause of death is the same as the past victims.” The detective told Eugene. “It says here that there maybe a witness which you plan to question tomorrow.” Scarlett read the file. “Is there anything else to do tonight?” “No, I was planning to fill you in on the new information and then head home to try and sleep.” “I will head to the hotel after I look at the case files more.” Scarlett told the detective. “We can hit the road running in the morning then.” In her hotel room Scarlett laid in the bed unable to sleep. Being a vampire, she needed only three hours of sleep. She had already had her three hours of sleep, but it was still too early to go into the police station to work on the case. Scarlett got up and took a shower. Before she could get into the bathroom she was knocked to the ground. She used her vampire strength to push the corporate off her and threw him into the wall. In the darkness all she could see was two glowing red eyes. “Scarlett, is everything okay?” Eugene asked outside the door. “I thought I heard something.” The vampire trying to attack Scarlett charged her, tackling her to the ground before she could reply to Eugen. Without a reply, Eugene burst into Scarlett’s room. He amid his gun at the attacker, but he didn’t have a prefect shot. “Put the gun up and grab the stakes from my bag!” Scarlett screamed to the horrified Eugene. “Also grab the bottle and gloves from the bag!” Hesitantly, Eugene did what Scarlett said. While he grabbed the items from the bag, Scarlett managed to overpower the vampire. She slipped on a pair of gloves and poured holy water onto the vampire in order to keep him from fighting back. “What is going on?” Eugene handed Scarlett the stakes. “Who are you?” Scarlett asked the vampire as she ignored Eugene. “Who sent you?” The red eyed vampire growled and spit at the special agents causing Scarlett to stab the vampire with a holy water-soaked stake. “You can’t do that!” Eugene yelled in horror. “Watch me.” Scarlett stabbed the vampire once more with the stake. “You want to find the man that turned you, but he doesn’t want to be found.” The vampire hissed. “I bet you want to find away to turn back.” “Get off me!” Eugene yelled as a female vampire grabbed him. “Have your little friend let go of my mate and then I will let you go.” The female vampire angerly growled. Scarlett removed the stake from the male vampire’s arm and allowed him to get up. “Let him go.” The female vampire let go of Eugene and pushed him towards Scarlett. The male and female vampire ran away. “Why did you let them go?” Eugene question Scarlett. “Who were they and what is going on?” “I let them go because I recognized that woman. She was the assistant to the local factory owner. I interviewed her last time I was town. I was suspicious, but I had no evidence.” “Why did they attack you?” “Last time I was here the killer turned me into a vampire. He was interrupted before he could kill me. Now I want to find the killer and have him turn me back human and then kill him.” “Wait you have seen the killer? “It was dark and all I know is he was a man and he had a scar on his left hand.” “You have to tell someone about this.” “I told you.” Scarlett placed the stakes and holy water back into the bag. “I think it is best to keep the vampire part secret. Most people won’t understand, and it will only slow down the investigation.” “I guess that makes sense, but it seems like something local law enforcement should be aware of.” “I plan to handle this on my own without local law enforcement. This killer is a vampire so humans can’t handle capturing him.” The police’s witness was not much of a real witness. She was a grey-haired old lady who complained about a man walking around the park, but the lady could not describe the man. This left the local law enforcement with no clues, but Scarlett had a lead. She took her lunch break and went to visit the factory owner and his assistant. Sensing she was going to do something, Eugene followed Scarlett. He stopped her outside the factory right before she walked in. “Where do you think you are going?” “I just plan to talk to him, vampire to vampire.” Scarlett pushed past Eugene. “I guess you can come if you are here.” “I was sent here as your back up.” Eugene reminded her. “You need to let me know when you are going to do something like this.” “You are human which means this isn’t safe for you.” Scarlett handed Eugene a bottle of holy water. “This will help keep you safe.” “Hello.” The vampire lady appeared in front of them. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Anderson?” Scarlett flashed her FBI badge. “I think this means I have an appointment.” “He has been expecting you Scarlett.” The vampire woman gave a sly smile. “Only you.” “Wait here.” Scarlett told Eugene as she walked through the door. “I will be right back and remember what I gave you.” The big doors slammed behind Scarlett, leaving her alone with Miles Anderson. He was sitting in his big chair behind his wooden desk. He was wearing white gloves. “I have been waiting for you Scarlett.” “So, I’ve heard.” Scarlett walked closer to Miles Anderson until only the desk stood between them. “I want to see your left hand.” Miles removed the glove on his hand to show a scar that looked like it was caused by a vampire bite. “How long have you known it was me?” “I was pretty sure it was you from the start, but when your assistant stopped by to see me, I knew for a fact it was you.” “Let me guess, you want me to change you back?” “That’s why you are still alive.” “There is no way to turn you back human. Why do you think I kill those who I feast on? It’s either kill them or have them turn vampire.” “How many vampires have you created?” Scarlett was thinking about the news she just received. “I lost count over the years. Does it matter, you won’t be able to stop them all.” Miles stood from his chair. Quickly Scarlett pulled out a bottle of holy water and splashed it into Miles face. With Miles burnt and, in a daze, she pulled out a stake and put it through Mile’s heart. As he laid dying, Scarlett opened the blinds allowing the sunlight to speed Mile’s death. “I will kill all your monsters, but too bad you won’t be able to see.”


I take one last look at myself in the mirror before I step out of my house. Hair looks good, the face looks as good as it can be. The dress oh the dress. It's purple. My mom picked it out for me. She says purple is the color of confidence and strength. I am gonna need a lot of that today. My poor old mom if only life was that easy.  My mom insists on tagging along and I don't resist. The car ride feels like an eternity. The roads are unusually packed. The know. They all do. We reach our destination and I am at once surrounded by screams and flickering lights. People so many people just staring at me. I did not even know that my dainty little town housed so many. They are all just standing there frenzied with their posters and slogans. For a split second, I feel like a celebrity. Then I hear a woman screaming at the top of her lungs cutting short my delusion.  " Justice of Sarah "  Then I hear more follow her just screaming out the rest of the names. I am Sarah by the way. SARAH. Jeez of all the names my mom could have picked out for me she went with Sarah. Well everybody hates their name. Their hair, the way they look. We always want what we can't have. Some more than others.  Well, there goes my moment of prominence. Thanks, lady. I immediately tug my sleeves down. I hide my scars well. Long sleeves, baggy clothes, hair that cover half of my face and a butt load of makeup. I make my way through the deathly stares and screams.  I am in. It's awfully quite inside. Too quiet. I can almost hear my heart pounding off my chest. I am surprised that they all showed up. The parents, the husbands, the wives all just crying and clutching the picture of their loved ones. Not so weak hearted after all. I take the front row, an unspoken rule for the survivor. They have decided to hang him. Snap his neck for a change. An eye for an eye or in this case a neck for.. well a lot of necks.  The officer let us all know what exactly they are going to do and how. Every second leading up to it feels like a lifetime. When will this end? After what seemed like forever, the officer warns us one last time to leave if needed before it all begins. They lift the blinds off. There he is in all his glory. His condescending smirk, a constant reminder of my night of shame and disgust. A nod from the officer, the lever is pulled. I stare at him as he gasps for air, his leg fidgeting. The others just cowered and held their ears close. They should have left when the officer warned them.  It's over!!! All this for two minutes. The all raise their heads. They look happy almost too happy.  His lifeless body beams of glory. Poetic justice. That was his game plan to cease my license to kill. For putting me on the map and belittling me with pity. A reminder of a glitch in my order, my biggest mistake. He will always be the one that got away.