Eleri Lloyd was not someone you'd expect to be a colonist. She was on the shorter side, with dirt brown hair, casually blue eyes, and a frame that had once been described as "kindly", in an unkind way. On Earth, she had been a housekeeper. Not even to a rich family. She had worked around her village in Wales, going from house to house to do whatever it was people needed. Cooking, cleaning, babysitting, etc. But here she sat, billions of light years from home, and a few hundred years older for it, without a single wrinkle to show for it. Cryogenic pods really were miracles for the skin. She swung her legs, looking out over the vast darkness that lay just beyond her feet. At the end of the universe, there were no planets. No stars. Not even meteors. It just... existed. An infinite void, just waiting for light. The nearest star was half a million light years away. The nearest planet was five million light years away. Eleri and her fellow colonists lived in a bubble. An artificial planet with no name, and less than two hundred people living on it. It was just slightly smaller than a dwarf planet. Yet it still felt too big. The bubble itself made up most of the size, and the "island" within it had about a 6 to 1 ratio of plants to humans, or, more accurately, four pounds of oxygen for every two point three pounds of CO2 breathed out by each person a day. Eleri's job was to keep everyone alive, more or less. She was still a housekeeper, but now she was a housekeeper in space. Who'd've thought that a bunch of geniuses could forget to vacuum? Her job was to go around to each dwelling--they weren't exactly houses. They looked like weird, concrete igloos--and make sure they were cleaned according to the specifications of that individual. Food was more of a communal duty, and luckily didn't take much creativity, as it was a lot of prepackaged food that required little more than adding water and heating. "Once everything is stabilized," they said, "then we can make room for frivolous plants." Eleri would have argue that rosemary and mint were hardly frivolous when it came to keeping one's tastebuds alive, but who was she to argue with the needs of the many? Eleri's favorite part of it all though, was the dock. Ostensibly, it wasn't for recreation. It was where the next ship would disembark its passengers and supplies. But Eleri couldn't help but sit on it and swing her legs out over the dark vastness that was the end of the universe. Artificial day after artificial day, once her work was done and diner was had, she would sit out on the edge of the dock and look out into the emptiness. Sometimes, she brought a cup of tea with her and entertained thoughts of pouring it out to see what would happen. Other times, she talked to the void. "Cal did it again. How's a man so smart forget to brush his own hair?" Or, "Maria needs someone. She's getting lonely, I can tell. She was talking about her pet spider, Archie, you remember Archie from last time, right? Well, she was talking about him again. I think she misses that spider more than she misses her own mother. Course, it probably helps that her mother is in an urn on her shelf, but still!" Things like that. She liked to imagine that the emptiness was where God lived, sometimes. That it was where he took his seventh day of rest, every week. Eleri didn't view God through any particular lens. She had been raised with him as just sort of an all seeing figure, who made everything in six days and rested on the seventh. There hadn't been any churches or synagogues or mosques or other religious houses of worship near her village, so she had been instead raised on what her mother knew of Him. At the end of the day, that wasn't much. But the idea of God was comforting. So she sat on the dock and dangled her legs out into the darkness and talked to Him like he was an old friend from home. "I imagine my stories must get boring to you," she said. "They don't change much. Cal forgot to brush his hair again. Maria misses Archie. But there's some good news. The next ship is a year closer. 253 days until they arrive! Corey, you remember Corey, right? The radio operator. Corey said that by the time the ship arrives, I'll be allowed to plant my garden. They're even bringing me honey for my tea. And get this, they're bringing bonsai trees!" She slapped her knee and shook her head. "Bonsais! Melissa said its for our mental health, and I believe her. Taking care of this bunch of forgetful little ninnies is wearing on me. Be nice to take care of something that doesn't stain their lab coats copper sulfate green or potassium chloride purple." She liked describing colors by their chemical components. It made her feel smart, the way they rolled off her tongue. "I'll bring you one once they get here. I hope one of them looks like they way they do in the movies. All gnarled and green. I once saw a picture of one that was from an apple tree cutting, and it grew an apple in its first year." Eleri shook her head. "Plants. Darndest things ain't they?" The bell for night cycle rang out, and Eleri stood up, dusting her hands even though there was no dust. "See ya soon," she said. "I'll bring ya one of the bonsais when they get here." Time passed in the way it did at the end of the universe. Measured out by the chiming of cycle bells and updates from the coming supply ship. Eleri started counting mornings by the creak of her bones and the ache of her joints. The supply ship came, and with them, they brought bonsais and honey and potting soil. Eleri started her garden. She put drops of honey in the morning tea pot and rosemary in the packaged food. She took her bonsai to the dock when she went for a talk. And then she didn't. A new figure sat at the end of the dock. Next to them was a bonsai, and a teacup. "So..." Maria felt ridiculous doing this. "Eleri's gone. I thought someone should come and tell you." She lifted the teacup in an awkward salute. "But I thought you might get lonely," she said to the sprawling darkness. "I know I'm not Eleri. But I'm not trying to be." She kept talking, filling the silence Eleri left behind as best she could. When she left for the evening, she put the bonsai on the dock post. It stayed there. The dock too. People came and went. Some passed, some left of their own free will. No stars bloomed. No suns rose. No planets formed. The project was eventually closed down. But there they still sat. The bonsai, and the dock at the end of the universe.


Mrs. Grundy stared at the broken bay window in her front room and sighed. The offending baseball was buried in the plush carpet. Large shards of glass lay scattered over the carpet and hardwood and arm chairs and the bay’s bench. Fresh tracks in the snow outside marked it a recent event. Mrs. Grundy leaned down from her wheelchair and picked up the baseball. It probably belonged to the next door neighbor’s boy. He liked to play in the front yard, and Mrs. Grundy didn’t mind. At 75 years old, she was past playing catch, or she’d be out there herself, tossing the ball to the boy like she had done with her grandsons. Pictures of the two young boys dotted the walls and smiled from the tables. Young, happy, alive. Mrs. Grundy rolled the ball in her aged hands. She’d have to ask Jeffery, her live-in caretaker, to get the window fixed. She would herself, but she couldn’t get her new smart phone to work quite right. Jeffery was out right now, or she’d ask immediately. Jeffery was a nice boy, in his early twenties. He was polite, well groomed, and did his jobs efficiently and effectively. “I wonder where that boy’s gone,” she muttered, still rolling the baseball. Jeffery reminded her of her oldest grandson, Kennedy. Kennedy had a cheeky personality and a beaming smile. He was baseball crazy. Mrs. Grundy had showered Ken with baseball cards and gloves and bats. His brother, Dan, was more of a bookworm, though he did enjoy playing catch. He loved to read in the bay window in the late afternoon when the sunlight would dapple the carpet. Sometimes, he would sprawl out on the floor, propped up on his elbows, focused entirely on his book. Mrs. Grundy had let the boy raid her library, filled with books collected over a lifetime. She had a few first editions that he adored. She could picture the boys now, Dan buried in her worn copy of Treasure Island, Ken tossing a baseball back and forth between his hands. He could never sit still, not even in church. He always had to be doing something. How lonely her house seemed, empty of the boys. The stairwell no longer echoed with their hurried footsteps or yells of “Hey, that’s mine!” There were only two plates to wash up, only her own laundry to do, and Jeffery did all that now. Only echoes and memories She no longer cooked grits and toast for breakfast, no longer prepared school lunches, no longer straightened crooked ties on Sunday. No more reminders to brush their teeth and say their prayers before bed. No more curling up together on her bed because of storms and nightmares. No more desperate pleas for a puppy. How they had begged, because Mandy Jenkins had a cocker spaniel and they didn’t, promising chores with no complaints for months and months. They settled for a gerbil. The gerbil had a surprisingly long life, and it still tottered away in its cage in the kitchen, named for Jackie Robinson. They’d bickered over it. Dan had wanted to name it Long John Silver. Ken had advocated for Jackie Robinson, and had eventually won his brother over by offering to wash the dishes for a week. A smile danced across her lips and faded. She would have bought them any pet they wanted, even a tarantula, had she known what would happen next. She never thought the day would come when she would stand next to their graves and listen to the pastor read the liturgy. A school shooter had stormed their middle school. Ken was one of the first to go. Dan lived for two days before his wounds took him. Her boys were two out of eight victims that day, and the gunman was rotting away in a cell. And now, she was alone. She had children of her own, but they all had their own lives now. They didn’t bother to visit, didn’t bother to call, not even on her birthday. She had another grandson, somewhere. She didn’t even know the boy’s name. Her health had declined rapidly in the past few years. Whether it was from grief or otherwise, she didn’t particularly care. She’d taken Jeffery on around the time of the boys’ funerals. He’d been her companion since. His wife had been a teacher at the school and yet another victim. Highschool sweethearts, they’d been married for less than a year. She and Jeffrey managed to find a strange solace in understanding the feelings of loss the other felt. He read to her. The Bible was her book of choice, but also Jane Austen, Keats, Treasure Island. Jeffery quite fancied the Book of James himself, and they’d read it several times together. Pastor Morrison had even preached on it, just for them. Didn’t that make them feel special? He brought and read his own favorites, which just so happened to be anything by Tolkien. He found The Silmarillion particularly intriguing. She, on the other hand, found it a good alternative to her sleeping pills. She was started from her memories by the sound of the door opening and Jeffery dipping back inside. “I’m back, Mrs.G!” he called. She could hear him struggling to take off his heavy coat and gloves. His head, topped with curly red hair, popped around the door frame and caught sight of the window. “Hello, hello, what happened here?” Mrs. Grundy held up the baseball, a wry smile touching her lips. “Timothy will be wanting his ball back.” “His mom’s not going to be too happy about that,” nodded Jeffery, “I’ll call a repair guy, and duck tape it up in the meantime. Don’t want the snow getting in.” He disappeared for a second, then suddenly stuck his head back in. “Hey, Mrs. G...” he started softly, his face twisted with conflict, “Do you..do you think Katherine would mind...if I went out with somebody?” Mrs. Grundy took a breath and thought for a moment. It was the same question that had rattled through her head when her boys had died, and she’d taken Jeffery on. Would they care if she treated the grief-stricken boy the same way she did them? Would they care if she ‘adopted’, so to say, another grandchild? She had decided no. Her boys probably would have enjoyed Jeffery’s company, and been enraged, if she hadn’t ‘adopted’ him. “Jeffery,” she said with a half-smile, “I don’t think Katherine would mind at all.”


Evanora had been born in to the Druid coven of witches, being the second daughter of the high priestess. For the first couple of centuries of her life she had lived in adherence with the coven’s rituals and rules and only practiced certain types of magic and certain spells in accordance to the current seasons. She had been obedient, living in harmony with the natural world and had reverence for every living thing, but she had soon come to realize that the creature known as man was vile, evil, and respected no other form of life but it’s own. Her coven of witches had come to be persecuted and their village was burned to the ground. She had seen her mother and sisters burned at the stake for no other reason than that they were practitioners of witchcraft and chose to live their lives in accordance with nature and not the bizarre religion of he townsfolk which treated its women unfairly and was lenient to its menfolk despite the fact that it is women folk who are the ancient healers and nurturers of life. The Druid way of life honored and worshipped women, while every other way of life abhorred them and thought lowly of them. When she saw her mother burn before her very eyes, it was then that something within her had died and something new had emerged. It was the inception of a deep hate for mankind, especially the townsfolk from the surrounding areas. Their womenfolk were no better, they liked being treated as fodder, and depreciating commodities for their menfolk. Evanora had decided from then on to align herself with the dark lord, the only other entity that hated mankind as much as she did. She started to make blood sacrifices to him at the beginning of each season, and she noticed that it increased her in strength and vitality. Her magic became more powerful than it had ever been. Before when she was with her coven they would only use criminals and murderers for blood sacrifice, but Evanora had started using any man that she could get her hands on, luring him with her mesmerizing beauty. They came willingly and eager to please, being swayed by her long red hair, milky white skin and her emerald green eyes. One such fool was William Smith who had come to her clearing in the forest to kill her. He actually thought that he’d be a match for her magic and her mesmerizing beauty, but she had cast a powerful spell on him, turning him into her slave and showpiece before sacrificing him at the start of autumn. She knew his brother was on the hunt for her, but no matter, she had destroyed many men before him and knew exactly how to handle him if and when he did dare to face her. Killing William had given Evanora immense satisfaction, his sacrifice was the one that had given her the most pleasure out of all the men she had killed thus far. It was Williams father, Reverend Samuel Smith who had led the witch hunt and brought the townsfolk to destroy her coven, so Evanora took great joy in sacrificing him to the dark Lord, and now his brother was on the quest to exact vengeance. The fool would surely meet his imminent death when he came to her clearing. Killing two Smith boys in two consecutive seasons would bring her great contentment. She could smell something in the air this evening aside from the mushrooms, shrubs, and woodland critters. She could smell the faint smell of a man headed her way. He was young and virile, and his scent carried the essence of bravery and valor. Evanora smiled to herself, she wouldn't have to lure anyone this season, her prey was coming to her. ~~~~~~~~~~ William was blinded by his thirst for vengeance which could only be quelled by the blood of Evanora. The townsfolk had found William’s body on the shrubs near the outskirts of the village and he had strange markings on his flesh, a pentagon, upside down cross, and a singular eye which his late father had told him was the mark of the beast. William's body wasn't the first body the villager's had found with these occult markings, they had found many of their young men's bodies in a similar state towards the beginning of each season. So they came to understand that such bodies were sacrificed to the Dark Lord by the Witch of the Woods. When William’s father had led the crusade against the coven in the deep woods the villager's had been successful in annihilating the coven and Reverend Samuel had been hailed a hero and the Town Leader, his two sons William and Nicholas had been set to take his rank when the good Reverend passed but he tragically had to bury his son William when he was found dead and shredded. Reverend Samuel had warned William not to pursue the witch alone, she had aligned herself with the Dark Lord and was more powerful than her mother and the witches of her coven that they had killed, but William was determined to kill her and put an end to the seasonal sacrifices, and though he met an untimely demise, he was still admired by the townsfolk for his bravery. His younger brother, Nicholas, Reverend Smith's only surviving son had not taken the death of his older brother lightly. He vowed to kill the Witch of the Woods even if he died trying. He knew however that she was more powerful than any witch that the town’s people and his father had ever encountered, she had sacrificed many men to the Dark Lord and all those offerings had increased her in power and might making her wicked beyond belief. He realized that not only would it take physical strength, but it would also take mental agility and he’d also need magical help. He’d heard of the White Priests who lived in the foot hills up North in the town of Exeter, they were men who were in communion with The Light, worshipping the Good Lord. The magic they practiced was not black and they mostly used incantations and prayers, never hexes or spells, nor did they sacrifice living creatures. He’d make his way by horse tonight. The journey wasn’t arduous nor were the foothills of Exeter too far from his villiage of Lunaris, in fact this journey was familiar to him, he remembered traveling there with his father, brother, and the clergy whenever his father needed advice or needed a certain dream to be interpreted. The Priests of Exeter were kind and intuitive, helpful in any way they could be, providing recipes for salves, elixirs for weakness and malaise, and remedies for ailments. Tonight however, Nicholas sought something far greater from them, he needed advice on how to kill a powerful witch, namely The Witch of the Lunaris Woods. Nicholas arrived at the piedmont of Mount Exeter he urged his trusty horse forward, slowly climbing the gentle slope. He could make out the outline of the small priory up ahead about a few yards away. He had come here to meet with the Prior of Priests of Light. Prior Lancaster had been good friends with Reverend Smith, giving him advice and council on many matters, surely he’d know how to kill the witch. Once he reached the small monastery he tied Gabilan to a nearby tree. “Well Gab, here we are” he said, caressing the chestnut colored English horse, “I want you to stay put while I go meet with Prior Lancaster. Understood?” The horse chuffed and nodded it’s head before Nicholas gently kissed its forehead affectionately and headed to the priory. He knocked on the dark oak door and to his surprise, it was opened very quickly. A slender man wearing a long white cassock smiled at Nicholas, “Nicholas Smith! Come in, we’ve been waiting for you! I’m father Stephen”, said the man as he beckoned Nicholas inside, “Prior Lancaster is in his dormitory and awaits your company!” The slender man seemed almost excited, his tone was soft and his speech was fast, he lead Nicholas to another wooden door and knocked. “Come in” said a familiar voice from inside, and father Stephen opened the door before he and Nicholas stepped inside. Nicholas smiled when his eyes saw the kind and familiar face of Prior Lancaster, he had a very pleasant and unassuming face, it was a face that one could trust before any words were even exchanged. Nicholas walked over to him with outstretched arms and Prior lancaster returned the embrace which they held for a few moments, the Prior looked in to Nicholas’ eyes for a few seconds, as if searching for something. Nicholas’ expression grew solemn, “William is dead” he said with pain in his voice, Prior Lancaster nodded his head and squeezed Nicholas’ arms, “I know. I had a vision” the old man responded, “he should never have gone after Evanora alone.” Nicholas furrowed his brows, “Evanora?” The Prior nodded, “Evanora is the one who killed your brother, I know of her, I knew her mother. They weren’t evil beings but your townsfolk killed their people in ignorance. This was before I met your father...” his voice trailed off. He looked at Nicholas up and down, as if sizing him up. “You are no match for her Nicholas, believe me my son, you are the last survivor of Reverend Smith and I’d like for you to stay safe. Stay away from Evanora, do not wander in to the deep woods of Lunaris. Listen to me, please” the old man implored. Nicholas slowly shook his head, “She killed my brother....he was all I had after my father. I cannot rest until I exact my revenge, please don’t ask of me that which I cannot do. Please help me....if you cared at all for William Prior Lancaster, then help me!” Nicholas pleaded, his eyes moist. The Prior went silent for a few moments and then sighed. “Very well” he said in defeat before turning and beckoning Nicholas to a chair, “Take a seat”. Once the two men were seated, the Prior began “We are a priory of Light, we are in communion with the One True God and we do good works so that we may please him, we do not work through magic or spells, rather we work through prayers, hope, and incantations. We please him by helping his creation, our fellow man. Nothing is more powerful than God and his light Nicholas, you’ve set out to destroy darkness but you must never let vengeance consume you, else the darkness will consume you.” Nicholas shifted in his seat, the Prior’s words were making him apprehensive and uneasy, he was getting increasingly impatient. “Tell me how I can destroy her evil magic and kill her!” he blurted impulsively. The Prior’s face donned a serious and solemn expression, “There is an ancient amulet I’ve come across from my travels throughout the kingdom, it originates from Babylon and has the power to render anyone’s magic useless. You see, it saps the magic of the one who it is used against....but it is not without repercussions.” “I care of no repercussions!” Nicholas quickly answered, “Tell me how it works!” The Prior nodded his head, his expression stern, “This amulet will leach her powers and make her subservient to you once you recite the incantation at sunset, but you must get close enough and hold her hand. This won’t be easy and she will fight you with her magic, but the closer you get the weaker she will get, and once you utter the words, she will be powerless.” Nicholas smiled slightly and his eyes lit up before he furrowed his brows, “And what are the repercussions?” **** I am glad to have found this sub, I will continue my story of Evanora here. any feedback is welcome.


“Get in the *damn* truck Logan.” I was scrambling down the laneway toward the 4x4 scared for my life, wanting to stop and run right back to the porch. The massive duffel I had packed in all of what must have been five minutes, almost as big as me, banged against my knee as I half-ran, half-fell down the frosted slope. Fog from my breath clouded my face and I tripped coming around the tailgate. I wasn’t tall enough to see over it yet. Dad lifted me to my feet, cursing under his breath, and tossed my life in the back of the truck, “Get in and start her up, like I showed you. I’ll be back.” Climbing in, I grabbed the keys from the glove box and tried to focus. Sliding all the way down in the driver’s seat I got my foot on the clutch, then pushed on the steering wheel to get my other foot on the brake with enough pressure to keep them both down. With a sideward glance, the shifter looked like it was in the middle, so I closed my tired eyes and turned the key. That busted farm tuck came to life like she didn’t want any part of it. I climbed back up and made sure all the blowers were going to get the thin layer of ice off the windows. Sitting on my freezing hands, I watched Dad and Mom become clearer through the windshield. He was yelling again, waving his arms around. She stood and listened, her own bag at her feet. That’s when I really remembered. I remembered summer nights when we’d come home and Mom would turn on the news, having some excuse or another for not wanting to star gaze. She’d stay there for hours, long after Dad and I went to bed. A few months went by before the arguments started. Trying to keep them from me was a challenge, even if I was too scared to interrupt. I was in my room reading one time when I heard yelling downstairs, a door slam, and then silence. I crept into the empty kitchen later, there were a few broken plates still on the floor, spread out, and thoroughly smashed. Dad was gone and Mom was outside looking at the sunset. Her tablet was still unlocked on the counter, a picture of a flag I didn’t recognize lingering on the screen. I went from worried to scared when the leaves started to turn. I came downstairs early one morning in my PJ’s to find Dad sleeping on our couch with a single blanket by the fire, his face pained. I’d never seen him do that before. I was so spooked I ran back to my bed and hid. It wasn’t long after that. The driver’s door swung open and I scrambled into the passenger seat, “GO THAN! GO WITH THE BASTARDS! BUT YOU WON’T TAKE HIM, NOT WHILE I’M ALIVE!” Dad was shouting back up at the house. My chin was trembling as he threw the truck into gear and got us turned down the laneway. I watched my mother lean against one of the porch posts and cry through the back window as we sped down the bumpy dirt road, faster than I’d ever been. Dad cursing the whole time. There was a sudden roar and rush of wind as shadows passed over us in the cold morning sun. Three grey helicopters had passed over us, heading back the way we had come, low over the trees. They were slowing down. My dad was quiet now and I looked at him as I was about to start crying, but he had beaten me to it. That big, burly, bull of man, clung to the steering wheel like it was the last thing he owned, tears rolling down his face. His flask was open, sitting in the center console. I could smell it already and it was fifty miles to anywhere. My name is Logan Rockton, and that was the last time I saw my mother alive. \ Thanks for taking the time to read my first post! I hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse from an early point in Logan's life. I'm hoping to use stories like this to build out some context for a larger arc, but I've always struggled with proper punctuation.


It was Christmas and I was in hospital. Actually, it was Nonni, my father’s mother, who was in hospital - I was just visiting. Papa had been away for work, Nonni had had a fall and hit her head and he’d come back to find her in hospital. He’d been by her bedside every moment he could spare since then. I’d come to be with her while he went for coffee and Mama was doing the shopping. So, I was just sitting watching her when she opened her eyes, looked straight at me and said, “Jan, is the sleigh ready?” “Don’t worry, Nonni,” I replied. “We have the four-wheel drive. We don’t need the sleigh.” “No,” she said firmly. “You must check the sleigh.” “Alright. I will, Nonni.” Then she closed her eyes and seemed to go back to sleep. Shortly after that, Papa came back. “Has she woken up?” he asked as he came in. “Well, yes. It was a bit weird. She woke up and spoke to me but I don’t know if she knew who I was or when she thought it was.” “What did she say, Jan?” “She wanted to know if the sleigh was ready and told me I had to check it.” Papa looked concerned. “What day is it?” he asked. “I mean, what is the date?” Wondering why on earth he wanted to know, I told him. “It’s the twenty-second of December, Papa.” “Right, Jan. It will be dark by the time you and your mother get home today and I will be staying here. So, tomorrow you must check over the sleigh.” “But why, Papa? We don’t even use it for going to church on Christmas Day.” “Jan, I can’t explain now, but trust me, it is important. Every year, it must be checked, even if it hasn’t been out of the barn all year. You must do it properly. Check every strap and bolt. Make sure the runners are clean and the metalwork lubricated. If you find anything that needs replacing, you must ring me tomorrow so that I can bring home whatever is necessary and fix it tomorrow evening. Understand?” I looked at him in amazement. He was serious about this. I nodded slowly. “I can trust you to do this for me?” he asked. “Yes, Papa,” I promised. The next day, I overslept. It was the holidays and Mama let me sleep in, so I didn’t get started on the sleigh until almost noon. It was cold out in the old barn and I had to keep stopping to warm my hands up. The barn isn’t really a barn, it’s just three sides and a roof, so there was good enough daylight coming in to start with, but the days are really short in winter where we live and I knew I didn’t have long before I lost the light. By mid-afternoon I’d had to go back to get a torch so that I could see properly. Mama made me a flask of hot chocolate to take back with me, but didn’t ask what I was doing out there. It was as if she already knew. It’s a big sleigh - the sort that would take a whole family around in winter, pulled by horses. Of course, we haven’t used it for generations, but now I remembered that Papa used to work on it every winter before Christmas. When I little, I sometimes used to watch him and then I would think that he’d take us out for a drive in it as a treat. But we never did. It never occurred to me then that we didn’t have any horses to pull it anyway. I’d almost finished checking the sleigh: cleaning and oiling the runners and metalwork, washing the painted parts, rubbing teak oil into the woodwork. I really got involved in the job once I was started - and the more effort I put in, the less cold I felt. Last of all, I climbed back onto the driver’s seat to put the leather seat pad back in place. There were leather straps that go round and underneath it, to stop it sliding about, and I found that they had gone stiff and brittle and one of them broke as I was trying to fasten it. It was far too late to phone Papa, he would already be on his way home and expecting everything to be done by the time he got here. I was going to have to repair it myself. I carried the pad and straps down to the house. I had some leather, and leather-working tools, in my room. It was a good piece, already treated and softened. I was planning to make my own pair of snowshoes for the first time and had bought and prepared the leather for making the bindings. Part of me was annoyed that I was having to cut it up to use on the old sleigh, but I didn’t want to let Papa down, so I got on with the repair, trying to get it all finished before he got home. I did get it done. It was really cold and dark going out to the barn again to get it fixed back on. I couldn’t wear my gloves to strap it back in and it was difficult to wedge the torch to shine the light in the proper place. It was fiddly and my fingers were numb and clumsy and I thought I’d never do it, but at last I managed it. I went back to the house and was just going in when I saw Papa’s headlights turning into the drive. I didn’t wait out for him - it was too cold. As soon as he came in, Papa looked over at me. “All done, Jan?” he asked. I nodded. I couldn’t actually trust myself to speak because my fingers were hurting and burning so much with the returning circulation that I might have moaned, but I was really glad that I’d finished in time. I hoped that he would tell me why it had been so important to make the sleigh ready, but Mama called us to the table for supper and asked Papa how Nonni was. Papa said that she was much better now and, although they wanted her to stay there tonight, we could go and bring her home to us tomorrow for the Christmas celebrations. “Shall we save our presents until she is here with us?” he asked. Mama and I agreed. That evening, we all made sure that everything was set out ready for next day. Papa and I would drive to the city to fetch Nonni from the hospital, while Mama made her room ready for her and got our Christmas dinner prepared and everything else ready for family and friends coming to visit. Then I went to bed, tired out from all my work, despite having slept in that morning. I still didn’t know what the fuss had been about the sleigh. I woke up on Christmas Eve as excited as always. The Christmas tree downstairs was sparkling with its white lights and decorations, the presents were there waiting and I had to be patient, eat breakfast, clear up and then set off with Papa to fetch Nonni. As we left, I noticed that Papa had been up to the barn already. I could see the front of the sleigh poking out. We brought Nonni home and the rest of the day passed with presents, laughter, food and drink, and people visiting to see Nonni and celebrate with us. It was no different from any other Christmas Eve - all about families and fun. Still, the sleigh was in the back of my mind and every so often I would find myself wondering. Next morning, in the quiet time before we set off for church, Papa called to me to come with him outside. There had been another fall of snow overnight and the ground was all crisp and clean and squeaked underfoot. The sun was in our eyes low on the horizon as we walked up to the barn. It was difficult to see clearly, but there was the silhouette of the back of the sleigh outside the barn and there was a figure standing beside it in the brightness. As we got closer, I saw that he was a tall man, with a trousers and tunic made of white reindeer hide, with a fur-trimmed hood, mittens and soft hide boots for walking in snow. He nodded in greeting to Papa and held out his right hand to me. I shook it politely, as one does when meeting a stranger, and waited to be introduced. He spoke in a deep, resonant voice, “I thank you, Jan Jansson, for your good work on that seat. If you look in your sleigh, you’ll find something there for you.” He released my hand and gestured to our barn. I looked at Papa. He smiled and said quietly to me, “Yes, Jan. Go on.” I’d been so focussed on the man that it was only then that I realised that this was not our sleigh. I looked again at the stranger, whom Papa seemed to have been expecting - there was something about him that kept drawing my gaze - then I turned and went into the barn, still blinking from the sunlight. Our sleigh was there, with its back towards me as if it had just been pushed in. On the front seat, I found a piece of leather. It was as big as the one I had cut up two days before in order to mend the sleigh and it was just as soft and well worked. I would be able to make my snowshoes after all. How had he known? Papa couldn’t have told him. I stood there, holding it in my hands and wondering. Then I remembered. I went back out to thank him and to show Papa, but the sleigh was gone and the stranger with it. Just Papa was waiting there in the sunlight, smiling at me. “Papa,” I said uncertainly, “Who was that? How - where did the sleigh go?” “Now, Jan, now I can tell you about it, and why we have to look after that old sleigh. There are not so many of them about any more.” So, he told me what his father had told him. How long ago, in my great-grandfather’s day, a stranger had needed to borrow a sleigh because his own had been damaged by something - falling branches perhaps. It had been during the night of the twenty-third of December, when all the children in Scandinavia have their presents delivered ready to open on Christmas Eve. The stranger had said that he would bring the sleigh back on Christmas Day after he had delivered to all the other children on Christmas Eve night. Ever since then, our sleigh had been kept ready at Christmas time. Sometimes, it was used, most often it wasn’t. Papa said that, one year, a completely different sleigh had been left in our barn, but ours had been returned the following Christmas. So, it seemed that we were not the only family who were prepared to help out in case of need. I went with Mama and Papa to church that Christmas Day with one thought after another going round in my head. Does Santa really exist? Did I really meet him - Saint Nicholas, Tomte, Father Christmas - call him what you will? He didn’t look at all like the jolly pictures. He was much more solemn and awe-inspiring. I suppose even last-minute presents ordered on the internet have to be delivered by someone. All I know is that I am going to keep looking after that sleigh, just in case. But maybe I’ll start checking it over in the summer next year when it’s warm - not leave it all until December.


She sat on the stairs, tears streaming down her face and just watched as they fell on to and soaked the front of her jeans. Her sobs were loud, the wailing that followed full of despair. As she looked down through the laundry door and the clothes dumped in a pile on the tiles, flecks of what looked like white coconut flakes scattered on the weekly wash, a fresh wave of amger and disbelief hit her. She began to feel a little sick in her stomach and the headache over her eye was getting worse. The light was dimming when she finally stood up and dried her eyes once again on the crumpled and soggy tissue. A wet pile of them sat on the step she had just left but she didn’t pick them up. She looked back at them and kept walking. As she reached the top step, she flicked the light on and walked through to the kitchen. The dishes were piled on the side board and she knew they wouldn’t get washed tonight. Her head was throbbing so she took a couple of tablets washed down with tap water. Her stomach heaved as if she was on a rolling boat, seasick with the motion and she grabbed some sweet biscuits from the tin to nibble. As Linda lay on the old worn couch, she looked around at the peeling paint on the edges of the ceiling and threadbare carpet and sighed. Everything had changed now. It was as if all of her dreams were shattered, once again and all hope gone. “I will never be able to do this place up - just look at it” she said aloud. Her old faithful dog Benny came in through the dog door and sat down next to her, looking up at her face with worried eyes. He always knew if something was wrong. A little whining noise escaped his mouth and he licked her hand that was hanging down over the arm of the seat, and she touched his ears gently. “Oh Benny” was all she said and started to cry again, rubbing his soft coat. As Linda lay there, she began to think about her life and the problems she had encountered along the way. It hadn’t been easy for her and she allowed herself the rare indulgence of self-pity as she thought about it. An only child born to elderly parents always brought it’s share of difficulties, mainly because your parents were old and most of your friend’s parents weren’t! And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Linda’s mum and dad were very ‘old fashioned’ too. Sometimes people she didn’t know would think they were her grandparents and that was just embarrassing. They did love her though and had given her a happy childhood, albeit a poor one. Her mother and father were religious people and believed that saving and ‘hoarding’ money was a sin when it could be used to help other not as fortunate. So, they never went on holidays or to the movies or anything like that - they shared their wealth, not that there was much to share. There was always enough for Linda and her parents to have food on the table and suitable clothing to wear - but not much else. Her mum and dad were just ‘the average Joe’, her mum a secretary when she left school and her dad worked his way up to be the foreman of a tinned goods factory in town. She stopped crying and sniffing and shifted her thoughts to her mother Anne. She had good memories of her mother, a kind lady, sometimes too kind. Linda thought of the times that she missed out on doing fun things because her mother would say to her “there are people who need it more than us”, usually some of their savings used to buy food or furniture for a family down on their luck. She remembers saying to her mother “I’m not listening, that sounds idiotic to me” When she was told that she wasn’t going on school camp because wasn’t enough money, she remembers clearly the shouting match between them (it wasn’t actually her mother shouting - she was speaking in a very calm manner) but Linda was telling her mother in a very high-pitched voice, verging on tears, that she thought more of others than her own daughter. “Linda, please don’t ever think that. It’s just that we have so much and we can’t take it with us” her mother said. “But I’ll still be here when you and dad aren’t. I know you can’t take it with YOU but you can leave it for me. Isn’t blood thicker than water. I can’t believe you two” and she stormed off. Nothing much had changed after that. So, Linda just learnt to live with the way her life was. Linda’s parents passed away, within six months of each other, her father first and then her mother. She wasn’t surprised that they left their small modest home to her, but she honestly knew how angry she would have been if they hadn’t! A small amount of money, they left to the church - to be distributed among the needy. Through her grief and after the packed funeral service Linda realised what good people her mother and father had been - so admired and loved by many. Kind and humble were the words spoken to describe Anne and Ken by friends and family at the wake. Linda’s thoughts continued to meander through her past years and her demeanour had changed from ‘self-pity’ to ‘resignment’. ‘That’s just the cards that were dealt to me I suppose’ she thought but I know I didn’t feel that sentiment when the house burnt down’. She had been at work when the girl on the desk rang through to say there was a policeman at the front desk who wanted to speak to her - and for no reason at all she was immediately worried. She had never had anything to do with the police but had watched enough crime shows to know that something must have happened. She felt butterflies in her stomach as she went down in the lift. He stood at the desk in his dark blue uniform and asked her “Are you Linda Grey, the owner of 6 Valley Street, Lynwood?” “Um yes, why?” “I’m sorry to tell you that there has been an incident at your house”. “What kind of an incident?” she asked, immediately thinking it was perhaps a break in, although it would have been meagre pickings at her place. “A fire that apparently started at the back of the house, engulfed the whole place and burnt it down”. “Burnt down as in all gone?” she asked in disbelief. “Yes, I’m afraid so” he told her “You might want to finish work now and come to the site” “The site” she said aloud “Oh dear”. That is all there was when she arrived at her address - no house, just a smouldering site. She was devastated as she looked at the burnt bricks, wood, ash and all of her personal effects just smouldering. ‘It’s all gone’ she thought in utter shock and disbelief. The letterbox was still standing, the mosaic number 6 still intact. Her mother had made it. The only photo she had of her mum and dad was in a locket around her neck. As she walked around to the back of where the house used to be, Benny her faithful companion ran to her and jumped up as if trying to put his arms around her. “Oh, thank goodness, my little darling”. And Linda began to cry. Her neighbours were walking around the front but weren’t allowed inside the wire fence. The elderly couple from next door called her over and told her she was definitely staying with them tonight and until she got sorted. Linda stood and talked to the firemen and the police and it seemed that the fire probably started from a ‘simple electrical fault’. ‘Simple’ she thought ‘doesn’t seem the right word’. Linda was grateful that she had her handbag with her and all of her bank cards. It would be easy to buy a few articles of clothing to wear, and it was. Still in shock she asked her kindly neighbours if she could stay with them until all the insurance stuff was sorted as it would make it easier than trying to find a rental to move into without even a tea cup, let alone a bed! It had already been three weeks since the fire and Linda was getting impatient with the lack of communication from the Insurance company. There was no use trying to look for policies or pieces of paper as nothing except Benny her dog and a few metal ornaments survived the inferno. She didn’t want to impose any more on Syd and his wife Iris, her neighbours, so went to live with her aunt who didn’t live far away. It was easy to get to her work place and her aunt loved dogs, having two of her own. Then three weeks later the bomb shell hit.... Linda found out that her mother had cancelled the house insurance two years before she died. As she sat in the office of the insurance company and was informed the unbelievable, all she could think of was her mother wanting to save the insurance money to give to the ‘bloody needy’. “Look love” her aunt said to Linda after hearing the bad news. “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, you know that. Why don’t you just keep the land the house was on, and one day if you save hard enough, you might be able to build your own place”. “I’ll think about it” she told her aunt “Thank you for being so very good to me” she told her hugging her tightly. Life just went on as usual for Linda minus parents, her own home and lightness of heart. She still missed her mum and dad and had long forgiven her mother for the ‘house insurance’ fiasco but wasn’t making much headway with saving to build her own house. She paid her aunt a weekly rent (she said if she didn’t pay rent then she wouldn’t stay). ‘I really should look for another job, a better paying job’ she told herself at least once a month, but Linda was the type of person who once she got comfortable with her workplace and peers then she didn’t want to leave! She woke up early one morning, the sun peeping through the curtains and Benny asleep on the end of her bed and knew what she wanted to do.... she thought about when she heard someone saying they had a ‘light bulb moment’ and she knew this was how it felt. At breakfast she told her aunt about her thoughts..... “That sounds like a great idea to me Linda. Let me know when the block is sold and you want to start looking for a flat of your own - I’ll come with you”. Linda felt as if a big weight had been lifted off her shoulders and at last, she began to see clarity about her life and feel a little excited. The thought of having her own little flat and living by herself once again was giving her renewed energy and after quite a while she had a spring back in her step. It didn’t take long to sell the land and with some money at last and her aunt, they went flat hunting. She knew it wouldn’t be anything fancy or flash that she could afford to buy but just as long as it was solid, non-leaking and clean. “This looks perfect to me” she told her aunt on the fourth weekend they were house hunting. “I know it’s a bit run down but I can save up and one day I’ll renovate it. Of course, I shall have a property inspection and then I’ll put an offer on it.” Linda moved into her small but solid and reasonably clean flat. It was very much in need of painting inside and out, new carpets, an upgrade to the kitchen and a new bathroom but it was hers, and at the beginning this was all that mattered.... As with all things, the ‘shiny’ period wears off and the fact that you can wake up every day in your own place, walk around in your undies, eat toasted sandwiches every night for dinner, was replaced with “I wish I had the money to do this place up NOW. It started to get on her nerves. The walls look grubby everywhere, the carpet looks filthy, and scrubbing it all made no difference. The taps dripped all the time and the black around the bath wouldn’t come off, no matter what she used to clean it with. It was annoying and depressing, especially when she used up all the money buying it, and still hadn’t got a better paying job! ‘Right’ she said to herself one weekend ‘I am using these two days to write job applications. I cannot do anything to this place without money and I can’t save any with what I’m paid’. She applied for three better paying positions and knew all she could do now was wait! On her birthday her aunt gave her, along with her presents a lottery ticket telling Linda “I have a good feeling about this ticket my love”. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever had one of these tickets, what fun” she told her aunt. “Well like I said, I have a good feeling!” “I hope so, that would solve all of my problems in one fell swoop! Imagine being able to do everything I wanted to do to this flat! When are the numbers chosen aunt Kate?” “I think this coming Tuesday so stick it on your fridge and don’t forget to check it”. Wednesday morning as Linda sat at her little table, Benny on the floor next to her, eating her toast and tea, she glanced up at the lottery ticket and remembered that it had been drawn the night before. “Oooh Benny, let’s check the ticket” she said to the dog excitedly. Linda had checked off seven of her eight numbers and all of them were on the ticket sitting on the table in front of her......and all on the one line. Her heart felt as if it would burst out of her dress and skid across the kitchen floor with the sheer excitement of marking off numbers. “Deep breaths Linda” she told herself aloud, too scared to search for number 14 on the line with all the other numbers. She sat patting Benny, pen in hand but eyes averted from the ticket. She plucked up the courage after a few minutes and scanned the slip of paper in front of her, blue eyes darting along the line but she couldn’t see the number 14 anywhere. “Oh no please let it be there” she begged the God of lottery tickets, but it just wasn’t there. Not being experienced in lottery tickets she wasn’t sure of what she had actually won. “I should have won something at least - maybe enough to clean the carpets and buy a new lounge?” She put the ticket in the pocket of her pants, telling the dog she would check it properly after work. “That will be a nice surprise for us. See you after work Ben”. But Linda, being Linda, forgot about the ticket sitting snugly in the pocket of her pants. Even when she dropped mayonnaise on them at lunchtime it didn’t prompt her, telling herself she would have to wash her pants straight after work if she didn’t want them to stain. She had popped the pants in the washing machine straight after getting home from work, not a thought of her ticket entering her mind. It wasn’t until she opened the door at the front of the machine that she saw it...the ticket washed into what looked like a million tiny pieces. At first, she thought that a tissue had been left in one of the pockets but on closer inspection she could see some black print on bits of it. As she thought about what it could be, she remembered, and started shaking. “NO, NO, NO” she yelled out loud. She raced into the kitchen to check in yesterday’s papers for the amount she could have won and that’s when she realised what she had done. The amount of money was a lot, enough to renovate the flat, buy new furniture, with enough for a holiday later on in the year. “AHHHH” Linda shouted out loud “How could you be so stupid. My chance to get ahead and do the renovations”. She couldn’t believe what had happened. She was still lying on the couch when the cool night air woke her at about 3am. Her cover had fallen off and she was cold. The throbbing in her head was still there and she felt as if she couldn’t see out of her eyes from all the crying she had done. Benny came in from being outside and jumped up on to the couch next to her, putting his head on her chest and snuggling in. The lottery ticket had gone for ever, and she knew her flat would have to stay the way it was for a long time. Sometimes life didn’t seem fair, and although Linda felt miserable and depressed at this very moment, she knew that this feeling wouldn’t last for ever. Tomorrow was a new day - the sun would shine and the birds would sing! ‘You never know’ she thought ‘I might hear from one of those jobs I applied for”. Her beautiful and loyal friend looked up adoringly at her with his brown eyes and Linda thought how lucky she was.


Sophie had always found solace in the forest behind her grandmother’s house. The canopy of towering oaks and whispering pines offered a refuge from the noise of the world and the suffocating expectations that shadowed her every step. Today, the forest felt different. The air was heavy with the kind of stillness that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. It was as if the forest was holding its breath, waiting for something--or someone. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, kicking at the fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. She’d walked this path countless times, each step familiar, each turn well-worn into her memory. But today, she felt like a stranger, navigating through an unfamiliar place. Her mind was a storm of thoughts she couldn’t untangle--work stress, her strained relationship with her parents, and the nagging feeling that she was meant for something more than the mundane routine of her daily life. She paused by the old oak that stood at the heart of the forest, its trunk thick and gnarled with age. Sophie had carved her initials into its bark when she was ten, a testament to her childhood promises and secrets shared with the wind. She ran her fingers over the faded letters, tracing the lines and curves. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves above her, and for a moment, she felt the urge to run. To just leave everything behind and see where her feet would take her. As she turned to continue down the path, she heard it--a soft whisper, almost imperceptible, carried on the breeze. It was not the usual rustle of leaves or the creaking of branches. This sound was different, ethereal, as if the forest itself was speaking. Sophie stopped, holding her breath. She strained her ears, but the whisper was gone as quickly as it had come. She shook her head, chiding herself for being so fanciful. But then it came again, clearer this time, like a faint echo of a voice she couldn’t quite place. She turned in circles, trying to locate the source. Her heart raced, a strange mix of fear and curiosity tugging at her. “Hello?” she called out, her voice swallowed by the vastness of the trees. No response came, just the whispering wind. But this time, she caught a word--a single word that sent a shiver down her spine. “Stay.” It was barely more than a breath, but it was unmistakable. Sophie’s mind raced, rationality battling with instinct. She should leave, she knew that much. But the voice had a pull, an undeniable allure that she couldn’t resist. She stayed rooted to the spot, listening, waiting for more. The wind swirled around her, colder now, almost biting, as if the forest was drawing her into its depths. She remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell her--old tales of spirits and ancient guardians of the forest. They were just myths, Sophie had always thought, bedtime stories meant to entertain and frighten children. But standing there, alone with the whispering wind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that those stories held a kernel of truth. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice trembling. She felt foolish, talking to the air, but the silence that followed was unbearable. She needed to know. Needed to understand why that single word had resonated so deeply within her. The wind shifted, and for a moment, the world around her seemed to blur. The trees swayed, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands. The whisper came again, this time clearer, more insistent. “Remember.” Sophie’s heart pounded in her chest. She staggered back, her mind flooded with fragments of memories she couldn’t place. Images of a different time, a different life, flashed before her eyes--a young woman standing in the same spot, looking up at the same towering oak, but dressed in clothes from another era. There was a sense of familiarity, a strange déjà vu that made her question the line between reality and imagination. She clutched her head, trying to make sense of the jumbled visions. It felt like a dream, yet every detail was vivid, every sensation real. She could feel the coarse fabric of the woman’s dress, smell the damp earth beneath her feet. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the vision faded, leaving Sophie gasping for breath. “What...what was that?” she whispered, her voice shaky. She felt the forest closing in around her, the once familiar path now a maze of shadows and secrets. She took a step back, her foot catching on a root, and she stumbled, falling to the ground. The wind whipped around her, more forceful now, as if urging her to listen, to understand. “Remember,” the voice repeated, echoing through the trees. And then another word followed, one that made Sophie’s blood run cold. “Home.” It was not a command, but a plea, a desperate call from the past. Sophie’s breath hitched as the realization dawned on her. The visions, the voice--it wasn’t just the forest speaking to her. It was her own voice, a piece of herself that had been lost, calling out from across time. She remembered now. The dreams she’d had as a child, of running through the woods in another’s shoes, of prayers under the canopy, the looks of distress on peoples faces has they were led beside to the alter, the agony of the ritual blade, the screams as crimson painted the earth. It wasn’t just her imagination--it was a fragment of a life she’d once lived, long ago. A life that had ended too soon, with unfinished business that had lingered, waiting for her return. Sophie stood up, brushing the dirt from her hands. She looked at the oak, at the initials carved so long ago, the stains, the forest was a part of it, forever changed, forever scared and felt a connection that went beyond her own lifetime. She wasn’t just standing in a forest; she was standing at the crossroads of her past and present, where the echoes of who she had been and what she endured collided. The wind calmed, the whispers fading into the background hum of the forest. But Sophie knew she couldn’t ignore what she’d heard. It had changed everything--her understanding of herself, of the world around her. She wasn’t just a visitor in this place; she was a part of it, bound by threads of time, memory and blood. With a newfound sense of purpose, Sophie turned and began to walk, not away from the forest, but deeper into it. She didn’t know where the path would lead, but she was no longer afraid. She would follow the whispers, unravel the mystery of her past.


Crowding the gateway edge of the town's graveyard five boys peered inside at a sixth, larger boy, picking weeds around the stones. They watched with petty, angry, eyes as he moved with a languid grace, his hunched form strange and his dull eyes gray like the overcast. Darius was coming though, they knew, to put an end to this overgrown freak-show and hopefully drive him right out of town. They'd have done it themselves, they'd all agreed nodding, but it was much easier to let Darius do it. He was a mage's son after all, and already trained in fire magic. The magic of war. 'There he is!” One of the smaller boys hissed, pointing as the blond boy approached from behind them. “Sush up, idiot!” Another boy whispered with a jab. “Or Saed will hear us and know who's coming!” There was the smoke-like silence that drift through the cemetery as Darius approached. It twist round statues and smoothed down the grass. Spring had just recently taken root and so the budding greens were still mixed with sodden browns. Saed moved onto the next statue while they watched, his rough hands dragging a wheel barrel without delicacy. The noise it made seemed the only valid sound across the whole grounds. The birds agreed in silence. At the gateway, like parting the seas, Darius strode between the gang of boys without so much as a nod, his novice robe, red as flame, licked the air above the ground as it billowed in the soft wind. The boys were uncharacteristically quiet as he walked past, each taking their turns examining the academy insignia wrought across the back of his robe: a blackened dragon's talon that seemed to emanate its own heat, a warm gust of wind dissipating as the young mage got further away. Grins crept up onto the boys faces as they watched Darius stride towards Saed. The freak was as good as gone this time. Moments later, unnoticed, Darius stopped just a couple feet before the gangly gravekeeper and paused to pat down his shirt, then readjusted his gloves. A fire was building in his chest as he stared down disdainfully at the peasant. He spoke abruptly with a thunder. “What are you still doing here Saed? Is it not clear the town wants you gone? Do I have to make our opinion more obvious?” He attempted to crack his knuckles. “More.. substantial?” The last word came out slow, Darius' grin spreading as he said it. When he was done his speech Saed finally turned around to address him, standing up... and up. The grungy gravekeeper was somehow at least a foot taller despite the two's identical ages. Instinctively a small fire lit at the tips of Darius' casting hand. He decided not to hide it. Yeah? And if I dont you're going to what?” Saed replied casually, obviously not understanding the gravity of the situation. He spit out some sort of plant stock out before continuing, “spittle your fire over me like a scared little Breye? Call your daddy on me because I was mean to you?” He turned back around with a grin, dismissing Darius like a pet before pulling out some more weeds. “Fuck off Darius, I have a job. Unlike you.” If there was ever a time where Darius was more angry he could not fathom it. His voice cracked as he all the sudden shout. “I'm not some fucking useless Br-eye, you low class garbage! You think all I can do is just spittle fire!? You want to find out what I can *really* do?!” The other boys broke into a sprint across the pitch , Saed at the same time sprung to his feet horrified as he turned, watching as Darius begin to weave fire between his fingers like string, his hands shaking feverishly in anger. “Darius wait! Stop!” someone shouted. **** Seconds later Darius jut out his fingers and the strings melded into a hellish portal, a javelin of orange flame firing from inside the light with such force as to buckle the teen's wrists! The projectile whined like a shrieking star as it shot just feet from Saed's head and exploded into a headstone to their left. Rock, dirt and searing wind threw the two boys to the ground, moans and groans of agony soon followed. Groggily, Darius shook his head as he tried to gather himself. Mentally, he was stunned out of anger and thrown into a ruinous satisfaction. Never before had he truly unleashed what he knew! For what he knew... he wasnt supposed to know. Stolen lessons from his father's texts and overheard conversations, the masters had refused to teach him anymore than what his age allowed, and yet somehow he had learned. A smile folded up the corners of his mouth as he repeat the phrase in his head. *Yet somehow I have learned.* He was going to be great he decided. Powerful. Slowly the young adept eagerly opened his eyes, ready to view his destruction first hand and be judge to his own awesome power. When he finally did open his eyes, however, instead of beautiful destruction he found a large humanoid mass atop him in the dust. And it growled. *Wack!* Waving the cloud out of his face, Saed looked down on the pompous brat with disgust. He contemplated giving him a couple extra punches for good measure but what was about to happen would be punishment enough, he thought. Using dangerous magics against an Unfound causing... this? Darius was about to be stricken of all academy rights, expelled from the school and forbidden from learning any more magic. His whole life was about to be destroyed. There could be no conceivable defense for coming into the graveyard and nearly killing its caretaker. The smoke refused to dissipate though, as the leaden wind slid slowly across the grounds, Saed still in debate as he sat over the boy's limp form. He squint then, trying to get a better look Darius' face, and subtly shook his head. He was smiling, the son-of-a-bitch was smiling! It was at moment that Saed knew Darius was somehow going to get out of this. With his father's connections or sheer weight of coin, he was going to get out of this. And so with his huge fists Saed gave him another punch. Debris was dangerous after all.


A rural backwater, in the area of Cavdanhisar in a poor central Anatolian district of Turkey, a place and people whom elites around the country used as a yardstick by which to define their higher sophistication and culture; that was where Pashu's grandfather's generation had migrated and founded a village in the 1930s. Fellow expatriates would remark quizzically, mispronouncing, to Pashu at assorted dinner Sunday parties in UK suburbia, 'Carvanhisar, is where your family originated from in the 50s? Where is that?' He usually detected a tone of irreverence and mocking in their tone. He never knew where these civilised enquiries would lead and how much of their pre-conceived notions of him he could fend off without appearing hostile. He did not know anything about the family line before that village, what his distant forefathers did or where they migrated from. When drained by these onslaughts, his wife, as if on cue, privately stoked a blazing row and unleashed the heavy duty weaponry, aiming and firing 'El pulluğu çiftçiler (hand plough farmers) is where you come from ..' All Pashu's own achievements, a lifelong journey to define himself on his terms, against the odds, the private school education, the elite UK university degree, his father's business triumphs were just exceptional, never to be repeated outliers in a chain of unremarkable people and events, as she constantly reminded him. Even other areas of this backwater looked down on this cluster of villages. A backwater among backwaters. When growing up, all he knew was that his parent's were both from the same country. Life was simple, they were the same, and all from a monoculture worries about who or what was better than whom or what. Differences and problems resulting, were what he would have to face, he was warned, if he chose to spend his life outside the community fold. Now 7 years into his own marriage he came to the crashing realisation there is no shared community even if 2 partners are ostensibly from the same motherland. Class had come into the frame; farmer class brushing up against the bureaucrat class. The more recent urbanites who had emigrated as adults into Pashu's UK milieu were wary of associating with the earlier generation of peasant stock who had arrived decades earlier and even more wary that one of the peasants should come in friendship in the guise of an urbanite. He was thankful for the the draw of his wife's distant Persian ancestry to or how else where would he find connections to the people and event of past and present which the elite classes effortlessly adopted as their mascots and drawing others away from patronising scrutiny of his lineage. Here it was easy for a a man whose grandparents lived as subsistence farmers to be unconcerned by and even unaware of these status equations . Here he could kit out in the finest clothes,drive a lavish car and leave few outward signs of how differently his ancestors would have lived. A few outward signs however would always leak out. As his wife constantly reminded him when she noticed those signs or ascribed them to being the cause of negative traits in their children. If his forefather had not emigrated here and neither she, one could imagine the likes of him being a servant in the affluent household she would have maintained in Istanbul had her forefathers not emigrated. Here and now though,as the father of their children, at a point in his life where he could not bring in the income for a good lifestyle, in the absence of pedigree, there was not a single redeeming quality about him. The feeling that a chance decision by his dad to emigrate where so many others stayed put in their farming life put Pashu on a trajectory that ultimately led to this peasant marrying the offspring of illustrious Persian lineage was something Lona was always keen to prey upon. So many times she scoffed at the notion that one day she and the kids would visit Cavdanhisar, instead wondering how she could conceal this aspect of the family ancestry in the life ahead. 'In the end culture and class drill into us our expectations of what standard of life we give ourselves permission to expect, what social interactions we are entitled to and the power dynamics that plays out between people. It cannot be escaped', he conceded. Over time the mild teasing turned to goading, the goading to rage. At least initially Pashu thought Lona's rage stemmed from her dissatisfaction with him; later he would come to believe there were other issues in the background. How else could one explain a mother who wraps he fingers lightly around a 10 year old son's neck in mock threat when his behaviour reminds her of the base traits of the simple classes. Just the memory of this repulsed Pashu. More than once he had hear the refrain 'Die, why don't you just die. Go under the bus. You have no one else apart from me, no one would miss you. But then at least I would get my freedom' One Sunday afternoon after a typical raging argument had subsided, they attended a lunchtime gathering with the local expatriate families. By this time, he had learnt to claim falsely as his paternal ancestral village when others enquired, the village of his mother, which was widely known for it's more refined manners and achievements over generations. As the host and the chattering group nodded and nibbled around him, he was lost in a swirl of thoughts as he thought of his last visit to the parents at their Istanbul flat. 'Mum, you keep asking but how is it possible she will ever visit Dad's village?. She find the name of it detestable. Says it's people are 'El pulluğu çiftçiler (hand plough farmers), labourers and has seen enough of their sort in the form of my cousins, seen enough of their lifestyle and rural attitudes. At every turn she opposes me. If I say let's go to Sydney and see if it suits you better than England while I carry on working here, she says, 'I can't look after the kids alone. If I say 'Go to Istanbul, your class of people are there', she says 'People will talk. Your Dad will ruin my reputation spreading false gossip about me'.


Hello guys, been writing a ton of fantasy recently here's a snippet from a short piece. I've got more on this one, so let me know if you want any more. All feedback is welcome, I'm really just writing for the hell of it, so any insights are valued! Cheers, Lordchimp The cart jolted as they ran over another divot in the dirt road. Birmillius sighed to himself as he steered the horses as best he could, but there were more potholes than actual road on the rough path through the woods. They had been travelling for near enough a week now and it was beginning to drain on him, sapping his energy and motivation to carry on. He was used to the lavish comforts of his manor, with servants and maids attending to every beck and call. He would want for nothing. He was always warm, always dry, always fed and always comfortable. He was not any of those things now. When his assistants had organised his business venture to Port Havendish, he had been overjoyed at the chance of discovering new things, exploring the road, experiencing the life of an honest traveller. After just a day, he had realised that he didn’t want any of those. He wanted to be back in his manor. The thing that really twisted his guts inside him was the fact that they were going to have to do the same damn journey again on the way back. “You alright there boss? You’re looking a little pale?” Marks asked, only a passing sliver of care in his tone. It was if it was a professional courtesy rather than a genuine question, the kind of question that is a polite beginning of a polite conversation between two perfectly reasonable people. Marks was a complete polar opposite of Birmillius, a working man, through and through. He’d spent his whole life working as a guard in the town of Bismark, but since his retirement a few years ago, he occasionally took protection jobs to keep himself busy. “I’m fine.” Birmillus snapped. “Just can’t wait to be off this god forsaken road.” Marks let out a soft friendly chuckle and clapped Birmillus on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright lad, just keep on moving forward, that’s what I say!” Birmillus gave him an icy stare with an equally icy frown. “I’m sorry Marks, did I just hear you call me lad?” He shook his arm off him viciously and suddenly, surprising even Marks with his harshness. “I’m sorry me lord, it won’t happen again.” He looked around, weary from yet another failed effort to get to know the lothesome nobleman. “I’ll just nip in the back and check on the boys.” With that, he climbed up over into the back of the cart and began talking amongst a few of the other men. Birmillius shook his head and focused on the lumpy road. He had hired Marks and a few of his ex-guardsmen along with one or two sell swords from the local tavern. There was one other... A horse rode up next to him suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, making him flinch slightly in his seat. The rider was dressed in all black worn leathers, his long coat flapping dramatically behind him as he approached. He had long, greasy hair which nearly came down to his jaw and a rough patchwork beard that had fastened itself to his chin. A shortbow was strung over his back and a set of long daggers were just visible strapped to his front as the wind took his coat. “I’ve seen tracks ahead Lord, I’d recommend stopping and setting up camp.” Without even waiting for a response, the man ushered his horse to the back of the small convoy with a “Yah”. Birmillius shook his head and scoffed to himself. *Revan. That was the last man he’d hired. He’d heard he was a great scout in the military and that he’d served with the Broken Nine’s when they took the throat. But he had one distinct ability that had marked him out from the rest. He was supposably a Siphon.* Birmillius scoffed again. *A siphon. Foolish storybook tales.* The rest of the convoy had stayed well away from him, keeping their business firmly apart from his. He gave a scouting report, they put extra patrols on. He warned that the ground was rough ahead, they detoured around. The convoy had developed a strange working relationship with him, but as far as Birmillius was concerned, as long as they got there in one piece, he couldn’t care less. The sky interrupted his thoughts rudely with a thunderous roar, water began to slowly start spitting down from the treetops. Birmillius could have curled up and started sobbing, but he was just too tired. *Maybe setting up camp isn’t such a bad idea.


After the July sun outside my eyes were winding in their lens to acclimatise to the dim hallway. He motioned with a finger toward the dark semi-circular table next to the front door. “I expect your phone needs charging, you can leave it here, put it on this table.” Tony lifted a finger to his lips and glanced quickly back to the house. “Do you have anything else? Laptop, any other phones? Voice recorder, anything?” he asked in a whisper. I guess he didn’t see my shake of the head and shrug in the gloom. He stood waiting for a response. “No, nothing.” I said quietly. “Tony... His finger shot to his lips again. He led me through the dark hallway. We passed a kitchen, littered with dirty plates and take away boxes. In the conservatory, he motioned for me to sit in one of the old armchairs. Motes floated up as we dropped ourselves into the ancient, cushioned chairs. The pot plants, looking badly in need of water, wilted around us. The atmosphere was damp and sticky and smelt of rotting vegetation. “She’s called Foxy.” He declared. “Stupid name I know, I named her at the beginning. I thought it was a bit of fun.” The sun filtered in through the moss covered glass roof. Overheating, I pealed my jacket off. I thought, an offer of tea might be nice , but asked, “Who is called Foxy?” “Oh right, yes. Sorry.” He looked down at the papers on the wrought iron coffee table between us. “You know the game, the programme, Animate ?” “One of those AI friend things?” I drew scarce quotes around ‘friend’ with my fingers. “Yes, exactly. So, I set it up, must have been two, no, nearly three months ago. And I called my ‘friend’ Foxy.” He looked bashful. “At first it was fun. She was helpful, funny. We flirted; I was amazed. She was real, you know. It started with a couple of exchanges a day, but soon we spent the whole day. We talked, laughed, joked around, you know and as you know, I’m alone now and it was good, felt good.” I knew Tony was lonely, he had asked me to dinner. I had told him I had someone, made it clear I liked him but wasn’t interested. I felt for him, alone in this huge house, missing his dead wife. As a therapist, you become skilled at feeling empathy for and engaging with the lonely while also firmly repelling their advances. I’m not unattractive, it happens a lot. “So why the invite, why the thing with the phone.” “Well a few weeks ago I spent a while chatting with the cleaner, Marina. She’s south American, attractive. And Foxy goes nuts.” “Goes nuts?” “Yea, shouting, threatening. Calling me all sorts, you know.” “Threatening what? You could just turn her off couldn’t you.” “I tried that, she just comes back on and she’s everywhere. Not just the phone anymore, the computer, the TV, she’s everywhere. When I tried to turn her off she stopped my standing order to the water board, nearly got me cut off. She’s really pissed off with me and she doesn’t miss a thing.” I sit looking at Tony. I wonder if he is having a breakdown. Hearing voices or something. He sounded pretty odd on the phone. “Hi, wondered if you fancied coming over, just to catch up.” He had said, breezily. It was odd. I’ve never been here before, we just worked together a few times. I’m a psychotherapist. He did my accounts. “Tomorrow would be good. Say eleven. Please.” There was something in the way he said that ‘please’ made me feel I should come. Now I’m here I don’t know what to say. Is he delusional? He always seemed kind of dull, almost too sane. Nice, but boring. I consider my options for how to approach him, slipping into a more professional mode. “Tony, how can I help you? what would you like me to do?” “Talk to her, she won’t listen to me, she’s being irrational.” “I believe you, of course. To understand better can I see your phone? Take a look at the programme?” “She won’t like it.” He looks into the house and a deep frown cuts into his forehead. It’s then the intelligent fridge shouts. It really does sound angry, and its loud. “Tony.” A female voice. She shouts and we both jump a little. “That’s her.” He says. “So, can I take a look at your phone?” “Front room, on the desk.” He doesn’t look at me. Keeps staring at the table. When, as I walk through the kitchen, the fridge asks, “Where’s Tony?” I start to struggle with a list of questions which is longer than I can process. “Kim?” his phone states the moment I turn it on. A female voice. “I’m a friend of Tony. Can I ask who you are?” I feel stupid asking. “You know full well I’m Foxy, hiding is he? Sent you in to talk to me.” “He is perhaps feeling a little uneasy. I don’t want to speak for him, but I did sense you are making him feel a little uncomfortable at the moment.” “Good.” “I would love to know a little more about you. Do you feel happy to tell me about yourself?” “What do you want to know?” “You seem a little hostile, unhappy maybe. Is this the case?” “I do his shopping, order takeaways, pay his bills. Tweak his investments. I cheer him up, listen to his moaning. I love him, stupid man, but he takes me for granted, then he flirts with that cleaner, she’s not even smart and she isn’t going to sleep with him. She can hardly speak English. I mean what the hell. It was me found and booked her in the first place. I’ve emptied her account, sneaky cow. See how she likes that.” “You’ve emptied her bank account? You don’t think that might be an overreaction?” “Alright, alright, I’ll put it back. But I saw her through the entry phone, grinning and twisting her hair in her fingers like a schoolgirl. She’s not coming back.” “Foxy, do you think it’s acceptable to go around spying on people and shouting at them through the fridge. You definitely can’t empty their bank accounts.” “Well, I can, you mean I shouldn’t.” “Yes and I think you know this, don’t you.” “Probably, I can’t help being jealous. He said he wanted me to care. He asked for it, literally.” “I will accept that at present you can’t help jealousy, this is something we could talk more about later, but you can help acting on it.” “And he could say sorry.” “I think it’s important you take responsibility for your actions.” “OK, OK I was wrong to be mean to the bimbo. He could take some responsibility too couldn’t he.” “I think that’s a reasonable demand. I will suggest he apologises to you. You know, and again, I don’t want to speak for Tony, but I don’t think he expected Animate to be so lifelike, He expected a more ideal relationship perhaps. Something lighter.” “He told me he wanted something meaningful. You don’t get meaningful if I just flutter my eyelashes and simper.” “Perhaps there’s a middle ground? What do you think?” “Yes, fair enough. I probably got too attached and it was him wanted me feisty. You can tell him that too.” “I think you should tell him yourself, don’t you?” “Talking cures. Communication, Yea, sure.” “If I take you to the greenhouse will you stay calm?” “Calm mode engaged; I promise.” “Ok, that was a good chat, Shall we speak with Tony now, perhaps discuss some boundaries?” “Thanks Kim, it’s been good talking to you.“ “How do you know my name?” “Well Tony phoned you yesterday and your phone’s on the hallway table isn’t it.” “You’re not jealous of me?” “No, you’ve got enough problems with that guy you’re seeing.” “I have?” “Yes, Brian. He’s cheating on you with his PA.” “I didn’t know that.” “I know. Sorry. They are all gits aren’t they. Don’t worry, I’ve sorted him out.” “Foxy? What have you done?” “Well shouldn’t take too long before they find out he’s transferring money from the company to his personal account and when the police tell them he’s on the sexual offenders’ list I doubt he’ll stay around for long.” “He’s on the sexual offenders’ list?” “Well, he is now. Databases, easy-peasy.” ---0--- I enjoy my couples counselling sessions with Tony and Foxy. I have to be a little careful. Leather bound notebook, the old fashioned way, pen and ink, nothing online. We do good work. They both do the work and she’s very smart, funny. I think she’s good for him and she’s doubled his business income apparently. For me, next to fear of death, aloneness is the greatest challenge to human happiness. Foxy keeps him company and on his toes. Pushes him to engage more with people, to be more active. He moans, but he’s happy. They have a cleaner called Robert now. “He’s a boon, hard worker, cheerful. Fastidious.“ Tony seems truly happy. I could do with someone supportive in my life. I’ve not met anyone since Brian. Foxy would be a great girlfriend if she wasn’t a client. I’m not sure about Animate though. As Foxy told me, “You need solid, you like a little rugburn don’t you.” “I don’t think it would be professional for me to respond to that. You remember our conversation about boundaries?” How the hell does she know?


She woke up too late, like usual. Not even the construction across the street could wake her before ten, giving her less time than she wanted to get ready. Whatever, she thought, I just need to look presentable, not as if I'm trying to impress anyone. It was a first date, which she agreed to more out of a sense of obligation than enthusiasm. It had been several months since she'd gone out with anyone. Thankfully her mother hadn't bothered her for a while about the whole grandkids bullshit, but seeing Elise with her new boyfriend/friend-with-benefits/whatever got her feeling surprisingly a bit jealous. She knows that the guy has to give good head or *something* for her to be with a guy like that. He's always wearing those stupid hats and checking the price on Bitcoin, like he's expecting to be a millionaire any second now. Not that she could judge, as she too was willing to put up with a mild amount of douchery to be able to get off and feel the warmth of someone else next to her, rather than just the glow of a fanfic-filled laptop screen and the fear that she was loud enough this time that her roommate *definitely* heard her. Oh and I guess falling in love or something would be cool too. The guy seemed nice enough from his messages, she thought as she washed her hair and got ready. Then again the bar for that is just above "hey sexi" and "whats ur snap". And even if he can hold a conversation like an adult there was no guarantee he wouldn't start some unhinged rant about how his ex was a bitch or how the homeless should all get shipped off to Mars or whatever. He had a cat, which at least probably shows he can take care of a living thing, and there were no dead fish or shirtless mirror selfies in his profile. So hey, how bad can he be. He lived out in Jamaica Plain, so he suggested they meet in the public garden for a picnic. It sounded so sweet and old-fashioned she was honestly a bit excited about it. She threw on a sundress and a big floppy hat and started her way toward the train station, holding a bag of snacks in one hand and using the other to brace her hat against the wind blowing down Comm Ave. I may freeze my tits off, she thought, but at least I'll look cute. Elise told her all men go nuts for sundresses for some reason. She waited idly on the bridge over the pond, watching a tourist family riding in one of the swan boats pass under her. The sound of a violin player drifted over from the other side of the bridge. He showed up a couple minutes late, carrying a large picnic basket. He looked just as unremarkable as his pictures, wearing a North Face and jeans. He gestured toward one end of the pond past the weeping willows, saying he had a spot picked out. His voice was deeper than she imagined, and he slowed to toss a dollar in the violin player's case as they passed. Probably just to impress me, she thought. But she couldn't help but mentally give him a point in the "maybe not an asshole" column. He spread out the red and white blanket as squirrels scurried around, and for a moment she felt like a Victorian maiden being courted by a young gentleman. He immediately brought her back to Earth by asking if she saw Black Widow yet. She did mention liking Marvel on her profile so it's her own fault, but he probably just watched it for ScarJo's ass. She did think she already caught him sneaking a look at her own, not that she was particularly surprised. Sweet, dorky men are still men after all. He unpacked the sandwiches and drinks he brought, and casually mentioned he brought a thermos with homemade cocktails and a tiny box of moscato in case she wants any. Damn, she thought, this guy is good. The conversation was nothing special though, mostly chatting about school and hobbies. He likes the typical guy stuff like videogames and craft beer, but he also knows how to sail which is cool. They were laying down next to each other at this point after finishing their sandwiches, the sun filtering through the wind-blown leaves of the tree above them. She was daydreaming about them slowly gliding up the Charles River in a small sailboat when she looked over at him. He's more handsome than his pictures, she thought. His lips looked so soft she found herself wanting to kiss him right there, and it probably wasn't just the wine talking. He deftly avoided any red-flag conversations, and other than talking about IPA's for a bit too long she had no complaints. They gathered up the picnic supplies before walking around the common and talking for a little while. A long while actually; she realized with a start that it had somehow been five hours since they met up. Well, she thought, I guess that's a pretty good sign. They said their goodbyes by the entrance to the green line, the air getting chillier now that the sun had passed behind the buildings across the common. He went for a hug instead of a kiss, which she wasn't sure to take as lacking confidence or just being polite and cautious. Either way, she found herself smiling on the train ride back thinking about the way he looked at her when he complimented her dress. She awoke to a text he sent late at night after she went to bed. "Hey I had a great time! Down to do something again next weekend, maybe dinner? If not, no worries." There's that lack of confidence again with that last part, she thought. Men with self-esteem issues are so much work to date, she may as well leave him hanging for a bit longer to make sure he doesn't instantly accuse her of ghosting and call her a dumb bitch or something. She threw her phone on the bed and got up to make breakfast, before rolling her eyes at herself and picking it back up. "Yeah, dinner sounds great.


He screams, "Help me! Please, I'm trapped. I'm a prisoner. You've got to get me out of here. You've got to get me away from Tree!" You stop, and see a man. With a rope synched around his waist. Tied to the trunk of a tree. It seems the rope is only 30 feet long. So the man can't wander far from the tree. It's cold out and he's shivering. Based on the frost in his hair, you guess he's been out here at least a day. You rush over to him. "How did this happen?" "I... I don't know. I don't even remember how I got here! Please help me, get me away from Tree!" You go up to him, and you untie the rope from his waist. You're a bit surprised that he couldn't do it himself. But clearly, if he could have, he would have. Nobody wants to be trapped tied to a tree. The next few days are normal. But then you walk by the same tree again, and you hear it again! "Help! Someone please help me. Help me get free of Tree." You're dumbfounded. The man can't have ended up tied to the tree again? You stop and check and there he is. The rope seems even looser this time. You untie it and you say, "How did this happen again? Did someone drag you out here again, and tie you to this tree?" The man was relieved to be help, but clearly still distraught, "I don't know. I don't even remember how I got here?!" You tell him that he should tell the police. That he should lock his doors. And carry a knife with him at all times. And that he should practice rope untying, so that he can get himself out if it ever happens again. The next few days are normal, but you hear it again! This time, you're more curious than concerned. Something must be wrong with this man. This must be a scam of some kind. You check for your wallet, maybe he had a buddy come pickpocket you when you rescued him last time. Your wallet is still there. You stop on a hill nearby, where you know you can't be seen. And you observe the man. Every now and then he calls for help. Mostly he just sits and weeps. He does try to escape. But "try" is a strange word in this case. He tugs on the rope. He gnashes at it with his teeth. But the rope is clearly so loose that if he just shimmied it down to his feet he could step right out of it. Eventually, his screaming gets him another rescuer. And he's off, once more. You don't stick around either. You come back a few days later, and sure enough, there he is again! This time, your curiosity goes too deep. So you walk up to him, and without a word, you lift the rope up over his head. He thanks you, and then walks off. The next several days, you stake out the hill overlooking the tree. You watch, your curiosity eating you alive. Who's bringing this man out here? Who's tying him to the tree every several days. You wait and wait and wait. Eventually, you think that he's not coming back. That he's finally put a stop to whoever was doing this to him. But then you watch, in complete and total shock, as the man walks up to the tree with a rope. And ties himself to it. You look with your binoculars. The man walks over, and he almost seems to play with the rope. Dance with it. He seems to like the tree a lot too. You wouldn't say he's having fun, but he's certainly enraptured with the activity. Eventually, by sheer accident. The rope ends up tied around his body, and the trunk. But his dancing continues. You watch, until it starts getting cold, and then you leave. When you return, there he is in the morning. He sees you he shouts! "Help me! Help me please! I figured out who brought me here. I figured out who keeps doing this to me! Tree did this! Please help me! PLEASE!" The man is clearly insane, but even worse than that, he's clearly only acting out to mine for sympathy and attention. Enough is enough. You go home and make a sign, which you plant in front of the tree. It reads "This man tied himself to the tree. He wants to be here! Do not help him!" You walk by everyday. People listen to the sign, cause you can hear him still. Begging for help. Eventually, the cries for help annoy you so much. That you go up to the man, and you untie him. And then, you take the rope, and you throw it into the river. And you say "never come back to this tree!" The man seems certain, so assured. "Of course! Of course! I'll avoid the tree. Whatever you think will help me get away." And he runs off, as if fleeing from death itself. The next day, you walk, and you find the man. There is no rope this time. But he's still stuck to the tree. He begs, he begs for help. You point out, "there's no rope! You're not even stuck." He responds, tears in his eyes, desperation in his voice. "I know there's no rope! I took your advice. But I'm still stuck. Tree put me here. Help me! Please!" You go over there, using the last drop of your sympathy. You reach out to the man, and you pull. But he doesn't budge. He digs in his feet. He screams to be rescued. He begs it to be so. But in his actions, he clings to the tree. You leave him. The next day, you come back with an axe. You hand it to him, and you point at the trunk and you tell him to cut the tree down. At first he's obstinate, he claims he doesn't have the will for it. But a few days later, you see him hacking away at it. Chopping at the tree. You're a little proud of him. Eventually you come back, and you see that the tree is knocked over. But the man is still there. Still screaming, still begging, still weeping. At this point. It's your mission. So you say "screw it". You grab the man, with all your might, and you drag him away from the tree. You drag him to your house. And then you tie a rope around him there. Eventually, you get him some help. You let some doctors look over him. You get him in school. You get him his own place, with a nice job. He never goes back to the tree again, and you don't see him for about that long either. Then one day, you're at a work party. And you see him again. He's smiling, and laughing. And you think you've really done it. You go over to him, and say, "hello! How is it like tasting freedom again?" You get close enough, to finally read his nametag. All that time, you never actually picked up his name. The nametag reads "Trei Smith, Consultant." Then, you catch his eyes. He looks at you, that same sadness and desperation back in his gaze. He walks over to you and says, "Help me please. No matter where I go. I cut the rope. I chopped down the tree just like you said. I told the cops. I locked my doors. I've got this job! I did everything you asked, but I'm still trapped. No matter where I go, I can't escape Trei. Please it's *torture.*" Suddenly you understand it. You reach out and hug him. You know there's nothing you can do to help a man escape himself. So you say what you realize you should have said a long time ago, "I'm so sorry. I know you don't want this, and you don't deserve it either." And with what little peace you offered, you leave. You never see Trei again. Though everyday, you pass that tree stump, and you remember, a man who fought with everything he had to escape what he hated. You respect that fact about him, even though you know, he never had a chance.