“Come on, honey, it’s a routine procedure. They’ve done it a billion times!” “But I don’t want to go, Mom! What if it goes wrong and I’ll get stuck in between somewhere?” The nurse looked down at the timid boy with a heartening smile. “Your mother’s right, Joey. You don’t have to be afraid of anything. These days, we teleport ten billion people a day all over the world!” But Joey didn’t care, how many people had already done it. It was the same as with getting your cancer “vaccination”. Everybody had to do it at one point, but the first time still was frightening. “Get out the way!”, another boy of similar age as Jimmy proclaimed. “I’ll go first and show you how it’s done.” With a smug face, the kid jumped into the colourful telepod and began typing in his dad’s address. “Miles, wait!”, a young woman called, as she was pushing through the waiting line past Joey. “Don’t you want to wish your mother goodbye?” - “Uuurghs”, Miles returned with a sigh. “It’ll just be until the evening, Mom. Dad’s gonna send me back before it gets dark on this side.” Without further hesitation, the boy pressed the familiar red button, and the telepod promptly sealed up to prepare for the process. As Mile’s mother waved him farewell, the burning laser plate at the top of the pod heated up quickly. The youngster gave Joey a complacent last look - before the plate hurled down and erased him in the blink of an eye. \ At first, Miles couldn’t see anything but white. This didn’t surprise him as he knew that, after a teleportation, the eyes had to get used to the new surroundings. Not being able to see, the boy focused on his other senses. The air smelled quite fresh - maybe even a little sweet - which was rather unusual for the Las Vegas International Teleport. Oddly enough, the distinct sound of a cooling down pod and its roaring machinery couldn’t be heard either. As Miles began seeing more clearly, a mysterious figure in front of him took shape. It was an older man, with a long, brown beard and a warm smile. Regaining his vision, the boy soon realized he definitely wasn’t at the teleport. Instead, he was surrounded by light, fluffy looking clouds and some occasionally placed stone pillars and arcs. The sun shone brightly, although it was not hot, and the white puffy hillock he was standing on felt soft and comfortable. The boy turned his attention to the elder. “What is happening? Where am I?”, he asked confused. Taking a closer look, Miles noticed that the man was barefoot, wearing only a white tunic with a red toga over his shoulder. A shiny, golden ring floated above his head. The man answered calmly. “Don’t worry, my child. You are safe here. I believe, you call this place *heaven*.” Miles felt distressed. “What do you mean? Heaven? I should be in Vegas with my dad!” Tears ran down his face as the boy started to panic. “I - I want my da-ad!!” “Oh, it’s always hard when they don’t expect to pass.”, sighed the elder. “But don’t be sad, son. You are going to feel better very soon.” “But I am not dead. I just teleported! I do it every weekend!”, Miles exclaimed, falling on his knees. “I AM NOT DEAD!!” “I understand.”, the bearded man replied. He looked past Miles. “I suppose, *they* can explain it to you better than me.” The kid turned around. Behind him, at least two dozen children appeared, ascending from a small valley of clouds. They all looked identical, with the only significant difference being their clothing. As the group approached, Miles realized, that he himself looked exactly the same as them. The boy, that appeared to be the youngest, lowered himself to Miles. “I know, you are afraid. Don’t worry, we’ve all been there.” The other children nodded in silent agreement. “But I shouldn’t be here. I should be in Vegas now. It’s not right!”, Miles explained. “I know...”, the younger boy replied. Although he looked like Miles 3 years ago, he seemed to be much more mature. “Basically, you are in Las Vegas. But not you-you; a copy of you is there.” Miles was confused. “Look...”, young him tried again. “Every time you teleport, your body gets completely dissolved. Then, on the other end, an exact copy of your body is recreated. But the original you... is gone.” Could it really be? Did Miles die every single time he used that machine? “Hey, I know what will help you.”, young him remembered. “Let’s get you to Mom. She’s already waiting for you.” The children helped Miles up, and led him down the valley where they came from. Descending the hill, he turned around to take one last look on the bearded elder. However, in front of the man, a timid boy appeared, obscuring the view.


Being haunted As my husband Ben lay on the couch, I was filled with only bitterness and anger towards him. I had watched as he fell further and further into depression. At first, I had been sympathetic, but as time went on, it got worse and worse. As far as I was concerned, he was busy ruining my life too in the process. He lay on the couch, sleeping, sad and miserable. He stopped being a husband and a father. He said things like, “Why can’t I just die?” and it would piss me off. I wanted to shake him and say, “Hey, I want to live here! Get over being depressed will you!” So, when he complained about the demons, I was truly annoyed. Really, now, demons? It that the current excuse we are going to use here? Many nights, 3am on the dot, he would stop breathing. He would tell me a black demon was sitting on his chest trying to kill him. That there were several of them. They were black, slouched over but at least seven feet tall, with long faces, gangly arms and long talons. The talons were claws with sharp fingernails. And they had wings. And were very, very ugly. Sometimes, he would walk into the room, and they would all be there. They would look up and notice him and then disappear. They were shadowy, dark, specters that lived in our house. “Must be having bad dreams dear” I said. Or “Guess you should start going to church with me and the kids then.” I didn’t really believe him. Even as he began showing me the scratches. The scratches began to appear on his legs. Then his belly and arms. Long scratches that went all the way down. I reasoned, He scratched himself at night? But I wasn’t really sure. That night was towards the end of our marriage. I was ready to pack up the kids and leave him. I couldn’t deal with the sadness anymore, the darkness that infested our home. I threw all our problems squarely on him. It was all his fault! Ben knew what I was thinking. We didn’t fight really, we just had long strings of silence with unspoken tension. He was the saddest I had ever seen him. I felt pity for him that evening, so I sat with him on the couch and put my arm around him. I hadn’t shown affection for him in months, so he immediately responded. He hugged me and we talked about benevolent things. It was the first conversation we had in long time in which I wasn’t instantly angry with him. It was such a nice conversation that we agreed to get dressed and go out somewhere. I went into the bedroom to get dressed when it went into me. The demon. Suddenly I wasn’t in my room anymore. I was in a deep, dark canyon in hell. The canyon was immense. So tall it seemed never ending. All around me were black lost souls of the dead. And that thing was inside me. I could feel its shape. It looked like a bald goblin, hunched over and radiating evil thoughts. Ben came to the room and laid his hand on my arm me. I freaked out. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed at him. “It’s in me! It’s in me! I’m in hell!” I screamed. I was in hysterics. He brought me into the living room to my chair. Bending down, he tried to try to calm me down. Ben didn’t understand. He asked, “Um, do I call 911?” “NO!” I screamed. “I’m in Hell! With YOUR demon! This is your fault! I hate you! I hate you!” I was not the sort of person who screams or goes hysterics. I am usually calm and even when angry I don’t yell. But not today. All that pent-up anger and frustration, all the months of not saying how I felt, was amplified by this demon thing I now had. Ben left me alone for a bit, as he didn’t know what to do. As I began to calm down from the initial shock, I tried to take stock of what had happened. I wasn’t hurt in any way. I was still me. But suddenly I had another intelligence living inside me, a complete mind. I knew its thoughts. It knew my thoughts. It controlled my body and actions. They were no longer mine. And somehow, I was in two worlds. I could feel my soul was in hell. But I was also sitting on a couch, in my living room. The demon picked up my arm amazed and looked at it. It moved my fingers staring. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers it counted. As if it was not used to having real hands and arms. It looked at my feet and how they worked. It looked around my house as if it just now had new eyes. It blinked. Real eyes, it thought. It began to show me things as I sat in the chair. Mathematical equations and geometry popped up into the air, lit up with a yellow light. They were all around me. I touched one of the equations and it moved. The equation completed and I understood a scientific secret. It began another equation to be answered. It was like a 3D supercomputer. I felt the demon was searching for something. It was waking up as if from a long slumber. It wanted to understand some deep cosmic question. I was amazed. What did this mean? Finally, satisfied that it knew what to do, the demon began to talk to me. “Oh, you poor thing!” It said to me, “I feel so sorry for you. You live in a dirty little hovel with a dirty little peasant. I am ancient god. I have been here since the beginning of all creation. I have been to marble palaces, eaten with emperors and queens, been worshiped. I’ve been dripping with gold, surrounded by beauty and culture. I am immortal. You, you have nothing but a petty little life. And it is all HIS fault. (meaning my husband). I can show you the world and its wonders, only if you leave him and let me kill him. You have to let me kill him.” I attacked Ben then. Or the demon attacked him. I don’t really know who did the attacking actually. I flung my body at Ben, who was just standing next to the bathroom smoking a cigarette. My fingers went straight for his eyes and I tried to gauge them out. Ben grabbed me and physically carried me into the bedroom. The demon fully manifested then, screaming, fighting, spitting, clawing at him, attacking with all its might using my body. But Ben’s physical strength and mine were very different. The demon had miscalculated in that sense. Ben was able to pin me down and hold my hands down. I could not get up. Ben didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t let me go. He tried to talk to me, but by now the demon was fully in control of me and I couldn’t release it. He began to pray. “Jesus,” he prayed, “Jesus, please help my wife. I don’t know what to do. Please, Jesus, please help us” The demon mocked him, “Jesus isn’t coming! He doesn’t even like you! You’re an idiot!” Suddenly, the entire room lit up. All around the ceiling was covered with white, glowing lights that hovered and floated around the room. I could feel that these were bright souls that had come to help me. And then a man of light floated down. He was full of beauty, wearing clothing of bright light, tender eyes and face. My soul and the demon recognized him at once. “You came!” I cried. Even the demon was overjoyed, and felt full love for this light being. He talked to me first, “I love you so much Grace. You have a beautiful, sweet tender soul that wants to cherish and help everyone. You, however, need to love your husband. He needs you. This is why the demon has been allowed to take you. Love Ben with all your heart and stop being angry with him.” I felt complaint rising in me. I didn’t want to love this man I married. I wanted to leave him, be free of him. I wanted to do what I wanted to do. He had heard my thoughts. So he said it again. “This is not a request. You need to love your husband. He has been chosen for you for a reason.” Then he spoke to the demon. “This woman is mine. She is not yours. Go back to hell where you belong.” I could sense the demon was furious. “NO! I want her! She is mine! She is mine now and you can’t have her back!” The man in white sighed. It was going to be a fight then. He said to me, “I am going into your husband now. I have to teach him how to fight this demon. It’s going to be a long fight.” I watched the man in white go into my husband Ben then. It was like seeing a double person in a film, two people on top of one another. I could see Ben felt it too, for he completely changed. Now he was confident. He was no longer afraid of the demon. He spoke to it. “In the name of Jesus and all that is holy, I order you to leave my wife and go back to the depths of hell.” The demon tried persuasion at first. “I’ll be good. I promise. Don’t send me there. It’s dark and scary and horrible down there. I like this body. Please let me stay. I’ll be good.” “NO!” commanded my husband. “Go to hell and be gone evil spirit. Go back to where you belong. You are evil and have been condemned.” It fought then. It cursed. It screamed unholy screams. My body had more strength than I had ever known. And still Ben held on for dear life, commanding it. When I calmed, I confessed all the hurt and anger I felt inside. The hooks the demon had on me began to fall away. I was incredibly thirsty because I was in hell. My body was wracked with thirst. Ben brought me water, blessed it and told me I needed the sacred living water of Jesus to refresh and cleanse me. We fought demons for three days. As soon as one would leave, another one would enter. Each one was different, and had a different personality. All were evil manifest. We did not sleep or eat in all that time. All demons, however, belong in hell. They are not supposed to be here on Earth. They get invited to live on Earth, however, by us. We humans have hurt feelings. We have jealousy. We have anger and bitterness and fear. Each emotion has a demon attached to it. They grab onto these hooks and drag us into hell with them. And then they get to have experiences outside of hell. They have already been condemned for the evil they have committed, so they now only want to bring as many souls with them as they can. We cannot see these hooks, however, because they are invisible. We cannot feel the hooks but we can feel the moods it makes us feel. My demons originated by an ancient curse from my family blood line. My family was cursed from murder, suicide, ancient satanic practices, blood sacrifice. These curses had weighed upon my soul. As all the demons left, weight from my soul left. I could feel it turn light, like the light beings floating inside my room. And then, in that dark cavern of hell, I saw the dark souls brightening. It was as though when I was fighting, the souls captured were being released by their captors. The souls floated up and I watched as they all floated to heaven. It was an amazing sight. There were thousands of them. They passed through to thank me. Thank you! They said. Jesus rescued us. You helped us. Thank you! I was filled with love from the bright light surrounding me. It was so beautiful I could barely contain it. When I was young, I believed in ghosts as haunting a place because they are sad. But now, I have come to realize ghosts live in a dark cavern in hell. They are waiting to be freed to be able to go to heaven. My marriage now is in a healthy place. My husband left his depression behind and we began again our journey of life on the road again. But I will never forget the day when the demons all came to haunt me and our family.


"Lets go for a walk." "Don't go past the fence Jerry, you know what happens." Said Kirsty pensively. They were sat again outside the old vinyl shop, sipping lemonade from stripey cans. "I won't, I just want to see the 'Planes going over. I saw one from Saudia Arabia the other day and one from 'Olland. You should come." Kirsty put her can down "Nah, thanks Jez but I don't like it out there, not with them new lot mooching about outside the fence. If we go out there, we'll end up in their world. I'm stopping here with the others. Inside." Jerry shrugged and walked to the top of the defunct escalator and started striding down the slanted steps. The motor stopped ages ago. Everything stopped ages ago. When they decided to stay in the shopping centre. "Fair enough Kirst, you lot are getting pale faces though. You'll end up looking like ghosts." Another youngster named Matt, snorted at Jerry. "Very funny Jezza, you nerd. Go on, sling yer 'ook. We want to look at the inside of the shop." Kirsty and Matt, and seven or eight of the other kids, pushed through the door of the music store and went inside. Jerry shook his head at Matt's quip, and got to the bottom of the escalator, through the huge swing doors and out into the open sunlight. Everything was fine being a residual and Jerry certainly did not want to go beyond the fences. That would mean he would step into his future self. That was what Kirsty was afraid of too. But Jerry was not to be ruled by fear. The fifty year old Jerry now strolled into view. Outside the perimeter fences. This Jerry, was alive and well in the present. Behind the perimeter, fourteen year old Jerry shuddered, he had seen himself and another group of blokes walking past the fences to a big new shopping complex with pubs and bars and noisy screens with football blaring out. He had looked at himself in pity and shock. 'Bleedin' ell. Look at the state of me! I am not going into that body. I'm stoppin' ere.' He had thought as the men trooped in all staring at some weird gadgets in their hands and shouting stuff like 'Tagged yer.' and 'Put it on Facebook.' Whatever that meant. To Jerry, it may has well have been a foreign language and what were them bloody things they were all obsessed with? 'Not my problem.' He mused, and sat on a broken down graffitied old wall with his lemonade. Suddenly, he was pelted from the complex above. Cassette tapes and 12" vinyl records were thrown and frisbeed at him. He was hit on the head by a wide range of music, and a 'Classic Hits' LP nearly scythed through his neck. Raucous laughter came from within the building from the other residuals. "Oiiee, you little gits, what yer doin' that for?" Shouted Jerry. Kirsty, Carla, Steve and bloody Matt. All laughed their heads off as more vintage retro equipment, rained out of the windows. "Can't play the bloody things can we?!" Shouted another girl called Stacey. "Ere, if you like 'planes so much, yer can have this one.. Nerd!" Shouted the weaselly, cocky Matt, as he launched a huge paper aeroplane constructed from a Men a glossy giant 'Rock Greats' poster. It drifted awkwardly to the ground. "Bloody waste. That'd have gone up in my room.. If we could have stayed fourteen forever." He picked up the poster and looked at the band on it. "I don't think they will be old people, not ever. They're too cool to get old." Jerry saw all the cassettes and records that would have cost a years pocket money, plus idd jobs, to save up for. Now the residuals were chucking them about like stones. It was true though. When they had the choice to split from themselves and stay here, a lot of the kids thought it was a fantastic idea. A lot didn't and send it was voodoo magic and went home to their families.. And began to age. Over Jerry's head, a real aeroplane now flew over, it was quite low and dappled in red, white and blue. He had his binoculars from the catalogue shop. Not like he'd stolen them. Everywhere was empty, derelict. It was apparently called an Airbus A220 and across the side it was emblazoned with the logo 'QuickHols.Com'. Underneath, in smaller writing was 'From A to B in under 3'. Presumably hours or days or whatever that meant. Jerry admired aircraft but would have been much happier seeing the 747 Jumbo's and the Tridents and perchance a diverted Concorde. That was the trouble though. It was meant to stay the same when they said they were staying in their year forever. How were they to know that everything inside the perimeter would stop and beyond it, everything would just go 'Flippin' mental', as Kirsty had put it. It was just as well as when it became apparent to the residuals that their gamble was backfiring, they had put their heads together and thought of their permanent fourteen year old futures. They had got their wish to stay young but their little world around them began to crumble and stop working. It was bittersweet. They had set about planting seeds for fruit and vegetables and learned how to make bread and cakes and those new pizza things from the cookbooks in the big stationers.The water still ran from some of the taps in the staff rooms of the shops and the river was always there, out the back. No kettles though. No electric. They had to boil the water over a fire for hot drinks. There was still plenty of tea and coffee and cocoa and stuff, but it would run out, or go out of date. Same with the juice and pop. So they tried stuff, like dandelion or mint tea from the leaves. "Errr.. Its bluddy 'orrible.." Sammy had said. But they got used to it and began to ration the luxury stuff. A day would come that they would be on this new natural stuff forever. Jerry wrote the registration of the aeroplane down in his notepad and was about to head back in to give the others a bollocking for their musical onslaught, when them blokes appeared again, beyond the fence. "Its me again." He whispered to himself. "Fat slob, 'ow the 'ell did I get like that. I'm not leaving now, that's for sure. Old git. No way! Not for me." Jerry spotted another familiar but older face in the passing gang of old people. "Oh Matt mate, you deserve that though for all yer bullying.. Your grey and decrepit my old mate, ha!" Jerry saw his fifty year old self with Matt. Carla was there too, and some others that were never in their gang. Kirsty was not with them. He wondered what had become of her. 'She's sensible. Prob'ly married with kids. 'Oo wants that though?' He pondered. The decision to separate and become residuals was looking a better option. If only stuff worked. If onlybeverywhere was not so.. Derelict. Jerry was crestfallen as he saw old himself meddling with that stupid gadget again. "One of them's gonna get bluddy run over. Starin' at them screens. What are them things? Little tellys or sumat? They don't seem to care about 'owt else. Knobs." Matt was tall, gaunt, skinny and bald now and wore a denim jacket that looked as though he never took it off. He also looked like he never washed and swigged from a nasty looking lager can, swearing and chanting football songs as he walked with the others. Carla said to him "O.M.G Matt, will you just S.T.F.U. Yer still a right knob aren't yer." Jerry had no idea what fifty year old Carla meant but it sounded like she was bollocking Matt. 'Good, he's a bluddy tosspot.' He thought. "Some things don't change Matt, stupid pleb. Bollocks to this, its like Back to the bluddy Future, they look like robots or sumat. I'm going back in." That was Jerry's excercise and sunlight done for today and he went back through the swing doors and grabbed a tin of corned beef from the 'SupaSave' and some stale Pick n Mix from 'Fanshaws Confectionery' and strolled up the escalators frozen incline once again. He didn't know how he felt really. Seeing himself chubby and with grey hair and a beard and weird clothes on and staring at that gadget thing like all his old cronies. Swiping and tapping the telly things." "It might be OK I s'pose. Might be shit though. Might have a Missus 'oo can't cook or let me watch the footy. That's if footy is still on and they've not replaced it with them stupid portable plastic fings. Nah, I'll stay 'ere a bit but I might go back if Kirsty and Steve and that come with me. Least I'll know someone when I'm that fat old tramp, messing about on that telly thing." Jerry went up the ramp and they were all sat eating a mixture of what they could get their hands on and reading magazines. Smash Hits, Radio Times, NME. "Any planes today Jez? I might come tomorrow. I'm getting a bit fed up with all this btoken stuff. Want sumat to do." Said Kirsty, munching a cold tinned steak and kidney pie. "Just the one, but I'd never seen it before, so it was alright." Jerry replied. "See owt else?" "Nah, bit borin' really Kirst." Jerry sat and ate his corned beef wondering about which future he would choose. THE END Andrew Evans © 2023


“Deadly Desserts” by Francesca Quarto The table was like a setting sun, floating inside the otherwise gloomy dining room. It was alight with candles; five burning in each candelabra; five gleaming silver holders running down the center of the long banquet table. The dark wood of the table appeared lustrous under the gentle sway of the flames. Each place setting was laid with near geometric precision, not one spoon or knife breaking the perfect line and pattern. The fine china was a delicate cream, bordered in intricate golden vines. The heady fragrance of freshly cut roses wafted through the doorway where five people stood in a huddle, staring into the room. “Harrison, I don’t think we should just seat ourselves. Let’s wait until the butler returns from checking on the electric.” The lights in the imposing manor house had begun to flicker like fire flies before they all went out. The butler left the guests standing in a shadowy hallway outside the dining room, assuring them of his imminent return. Margery Gladstone was speaking softly to her husband, but there were murmurs of agreement among the other three. Harrison Gladstone thought about this, but after another minute of lurking outside the room, asked “Why not my dear? We are, after all Bradford’s guests, and he won’t want us standing about like a mob of sheep in his hallway.” There was a giggle from Mandy Clarkson, the young woman they met when they arrived. As they were handing coats and wraps to the servant in the brightly lit marble foyer, the chatty girl said she and her husband Bill were newlyweds and still unpacking boxes in a cottage they rented in the village. “It was real nice of Mr. Bradford to invite us tonight. Bill only just started in the tool shop at the factory, so we barely know a soul outside of the local pub and butcher!” She laughed as did her new spouse, looking at her affectionately. Gladstone raised his eyebrows at the mention of Bill’s menial labor as a factory worker. His factory to be precise! He grabbed Margery’s elbow and steered her into the dining room, sitting her next to him as he took the chair to the host’s right as was befitting his station in the community. He provided work for over seventy men and kept food on their tables. His factory produced fine farming equipment to all the surrounding regions, even shipped overseas to American agricultural suppliers. He was an important man, with important responsibilities. The young couple sat across from Gladstone and his wife, leaving the fifth guest to take the chair next to Mindy. He had merely nodded his greetings to the rest of them when he first arrived and joined them in the foyer. Harrison wondered at his silence, but was never one to offer his hand to a man who hadn’t proved his credentials in a formal introduction. The silent guest smiled at Margery, ignoring Harrison, and turning toward Mindy and Bill spoke for the first time. “Good evening. Doctor Malcom Mallory at your service,” he said bobbing his head slightly. The candlelight reflected off the bald circle at the crown of his head. Bill Clarkson reached across his wife awkwardly and offered his hand. Harrison Gladstone gritted his teeth at the cheek of the man! His harumph did not go unnoticed by Mallory who had a thin smile on his narrow face. “Exactly what kind of ‘doctor’ are you Mallory?” Gladstone gruffly asked. Margery sighed deeply, knowing her husband would be out for blood at the afront of being ignored by this Mallory person. “Why, I am a Doctor of Divinity sir.” “Humph. And what connection have you to our host?” he went on to ask, a sharp edge to his voice. “I am here to speak truth to lies, sir. As simple as that. But first, our diner seems ready to be served.” A servant carrying a silver tureen, appeared out of the shadows surrounding the diners. Another servant followed, placing a small soup bowl on each guest’s plate. The first servant approached the table, while the other carefully ladled a thin broth into each bowl. The guests were all silent during this process, only Bill and Mandy saying a cheerful “thank you much” to the servant. Margery could hear Harrison gritting his teeth at such inappropriate behavior. The Doctor watched the others from under his bushy brows, as they sipped at the odd tasting broth. His own silver spoon merely moved around in the bowl creating tiny wavelets. Ten minutes went by and Mandy asked the table, “What did you think of that soup? Kind of plain, but very tasty I’d say.” Harrison could be heard groaning at yet another faux pas. “Where in damnation is our host?” he growled. Margery’s hand was on his arm trying to calm the ire that rose along with a deeper flush on his florid face. “He’s likely fussing with the electric dear, trying to repair it so the lights come back on.” They all turned as yet another two servants appeared out of the shadowy hallway carrying platers of meats and side dishes. They set these down on the sideboard a began the slow process of serving the five watching guests. “Where is our host, Mr. Michael? We’ve been sitting here now for a good forty minutes in a half-darkened room and no sign of the man!” Gladstone’s voice was tinged with indignation as he stared daggers at the servant. He’d only accepted this invitation because this Michael character was a promising new customer, though he couldn’t recall who had passed that information along to his attention. But unless he showed himself, and soon, Gladstone would be out of there! “I can assure you your host will join you in time for dessert, sir,” the unruffled server answered. Before Gladstone could ask anything more, the servants both melted into the shadows. The two couples began to eat from their generously filled plates. The Doctor pushed his food around the plate, using his heavy knife to slice into the tender meats, but not eating. His odd behavior caught the attention of his young seat mates. Bill leaned down to see past his wife. “Don’t have an appetite Doctor Mallory? This here’s fine meat I can tell ya!” I prefer to save my appetites for dessert young man. But I am sure the fare is quite fine,” he smiled warmly into the young man’s honest eyes. Margery was always a quiet woman, as her husband preferred, but she was drawn into the conversation between the Doctor and the young man, adding she loved her sweets as well. Her husband looked over at her saying, “And it shows my dear.” Her blush was so deep it glowed pink under the soft light of the candles. Mandy was immediately drawn away from enjoying her meal by the cruel comment lobbed at the older woman. “I think a real gentleman would never say such a thing to his missus! You look fit and strong Mrs. Gladstone; both are gifts from the Lord.” Gladstone’s fork clattered on the bone china plate when he threw it down. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? What would the likes of you know of gentleman, when you are not a lady in any sense of the word!” Before Bill could rush to defend his wife, a servant materialized from the gloom surrounding them like a dark mote. “Your dessert is ready to be served ladies and gentleman.” A tall man, stepped from the dark hallway into the shallow light pulsing around the guests. He was dressed in a silvery suit that fit snugly around his well-muscled body, looking like tightly woven armor in the soft glow of the candles. His hair and coloring were so pale he could have been albino, except for his eyes, shinning like obsidian from a beautifully sculpted face. His voice was like a trumpet call in its clarity. “You have been expecting me for some time, but time is nothing put a weak reminder of our existence, wouldn’t you say Doctor Mallory?” “Indeed, sir. I am ready for whatever dessert you deem justified for me.” “What kind of babbling is this?” Gladstone spat out. Ignoring the outburst, their host turned to the young couple who’s hands were intertwined and their faces open and trusting. “You two have brought your light, even briefly, into this dark world. Your love will forever shine.” Grabbing at his wife’s arm, Gladstone was pulling Margery to her feet. “No Harrison!” she said firmly. “I will stay for dessert!” “Madame,” the host said. “Yours has been a life of long suffering with a brutish husband who never valued your kind heart and sure wisdom. Your desserts will be many.” Gladstone growled like a caged animal. “How dare you? Who are you to try to lord over me? I don’t need to be insulted at anyone’s table, no matter how finely it’s set! Margery, I’m leaving with or without you!” But when he tried to move, Harrison Gladstone found his legs were frozen in place and he couldn’t rise from the chair. “It’s plain to see you have no idea where you are Mr. Gladstone. Perhaps it would be better if I showed you.” There was a sudden bolt of blinding light. Gladstone felt like his eyes were seared in place and he fought desperately to blink them for relief. “You will no longer be able to close your eyes to the truth,” the gleaming Archangel said to the petrified man. “The fire in your factory spread to many nearby cottages, and many died trying to save the workers, such as Bill. You, Gladstone, lived a life of greed, envy, cruelty and lies and now you will be served your Just Desserts.” The candles were snuffed out, one after the other. With each darkened candelabra, one of the guests disappeared, leaving a small pool of light for the one remaining. The candles burned, but never melted. The flames were dancing for him alone and his loneliness became overwhelming. “How long have I been here? Hours? Days? Years!” He began to howl into the darkness surrounding him, wishing to find eternal oblivion instead of and eternity of eating his banquet of thorny desserts. The End


With some gentle force, Ick pushed the last bit of toothpaste into his brush. Neither a thief nor a gentleman can live long without stunning white teeth that make women throw roses at them. Today was his first date in ages. The last woman left him because she wasn't at all into his "crime thing," but he didn't cry due to her turning 25 a week before. He & his date met in a posh café; she was already there when he entered the café. "Oh! It is you!" The woman said. Ick looked at her a few times, always focused on different parts of her body. "Don't remember." He judged as he walked towards her. "No surprise, but I remember you!" She exclaimed as she shifted her feet so that they point at him. He fancied her combo of a red dress, blond hair, green eyes, and therefore he let her kind of stalkerish comments fly. He sat next to her. "This is the moment where you explain to me what you mean." "You know my Mom, Holy." Ick just glanced at her with an empty face. "She has a sister named Gloria." "This describes at least a quarter of all women in the average church," Ick stated without any emotions. "Ha, believe me, you know her well!" "She is the woman who gave you $20,000 for stealing a spiderweb from her now ex-husband," she finally gave Ick something he can use. Ick placed his left hand on her right hand. "Oh, she didn't mention that she has a daughter that would have changed some things." "Oho, oho, tell me." She poked him while she pushed his hand slightly away with one finger. "Well, where should I start?" He questioned rhetorically, "there are positive and negative things about more mature women." "positive and negative things, yeah, yeah, I see." She had to try hard to keep herself from smiling too wide. "But if she has a good looking daughter" - Dolly, the woman who sat to his left side, raised an eyebrow, slightly grinning - "that means she is a MILF" - she kept her eyebrow raised, but now without a grin - "Which in turns means, I should have hit on her daughter instead." She giggled. "You sure know how to keep a girl on the edge of her seat, Mr. Cord." She still laughed and had lightly flushed cheeks but tried to keep it less noticeable by turning her head a bit away. "Well, in my line of work, charming of women is a necessity, and I love my job." "Aha, so I am one of the numerous you can work your skills on? I understand", she faked distress and extracted her hand from his. He grabbed her hand. "Doesn't one has to train on cheap material before being able to work with more valuable material?" He asked with an over-the-top delivery. She kept her composure and doubled down, "Aww, that sounds like a borderline creepy Instagram pick-up line." "I don't even know what an Instagram is." Ick threw a curveball to push her out of her attack position. "It is a website about attractive girls, food, and yeah, that's mainly it." She explained to him, "are you that antiquated that you don't know that, or are you fooling me?" He shifted his left hand away from her hand and instead lay his left arm around her while he said with wisdom shining through, "you know, only a man not used to attractive women spend his time looking at pictures of them. I prefer the real deal." She moved a bit closer; she pressed her shoulders a bit against his chest. "Oho? I didn't hear about this side of you so far, Mr. Playboy. When we at the thief fan club talk about you, that topic never comes up, just like with all those other thieves. On the other hand, we still aren't sure how you did steal that one basketball team. Tell me more about this!" "One has to treat a good theft like a woman," he started his monolog and turned to the left. "Is it so? Tell me more, but not too long." "One needs a good technic to start the theft," he put his right hand on her side. "A good technic? I can't see how a woman needs a good technic. It sounds like faking it. Is that so, Mr. Cord? Are you a faker? A liar, liar, liar?" She poked fun at him but put her legs closer together and turned them in his direction. "Here, the wine for both of you." The waiter slammed the glasses on the table. "Sorry for that," he said without any hint of actually being sorry. "How cavemanish, you ordered for me too? How disappointing," she stated without many expressions in her voice. "It is a good Merlot." Ick showed her the bottle a second after he freed his right hand from her side. "And why do we have a Merlot in front of us?" She wondered while she made her knees touch his. "I remember there being a big wine cellar in your mother's house; nothing in there besides Merlot." He opened the bottle and poured the wine first in her glass, followed by his own. "So, you planned for my mother being here? There may be some misunderstandings on your side, Mr. Cord." With two fingers, she holds the wine glass while she moves it towards her lips. "I don't plan for a woman. I only plan for a house of women." He parried without thinking about it for more than a second. Both drank a bit of wine without changing their position one bit. "Women prefer it when they got asked if they liked the wine." She broke the silence. He mustered her body and face, both that are so close but still a bit too far away from him. "I never came in a situation in which I had reasons to doubt my good judgment." "Never?" "Never." He answered and pulled her a bit closer with his right hand. She instinctively put parts of her left leg on his lap. "There are probably some things that would make the other women at the club jealous." He started his next sequence. "Are there, Mr. Cord?" She asked rhetorically and pressed her forehead against his. "I didn't expect you to be a blunt girl." "I didn't expect you to be a shy guy, Ick." "The bill!" The waiter more or less threw his tablet on the table. It slid over the table, and without much power, it hit Ick's elbow. Ick grabbed with one hand her hair close to her hair root and pulled her head so that she had to look upwards into his eyes. "Ick, aren't you a bad boy today?" She smiled. "Always Dolly, always." He grinned and gave her a deep kiss.


Leo had never seen anything quite like her. His non-beating heart twitched curiously anytime she lumbered his way. “Aannna,” he mumbled somewhat unintelligibly to himself, half aware that he was speaking her name, or at least trying to. What was it about her that made him want to rub the bloody stump that used to be his right hand through her dark, matted hair? As she approached, his question was answered in an instant. The pustules on Anna’s rancid skin danced in the moonlight like a series of volcanic island chains spewing magma into the undaunted Pacific. Her dull, lifeless eyes rolled back in their deeply set sockets like a shark after the kill. Greenish arms protruded awkwardly from her tattered Ann Taylor blouse, as she absent-mindedly jerked her way towards him. She was in a word, “prrrffeect.” Leo had fallen in love, or whatever this burning feeling was, at first sight. Actually, that isn’t fair. The first time he saw Anna, she was beating a hapless victim she had begun to dismember with his own arm, while making some hard-to-love gurgling sounds in the midst of the excitement. But that didn’t count in Leo’s mind because she never saw him peering from afar. It was as clear cut a case of a “do-over” as one could have in his mind. The next time, the true “first time,” they locked their soulless eyes on one another, she tried to kill him, and he felt the kind of terrifying love that really means something. ----------------------------- Admittedly, the pickings were slim these days, given the apocalypse and all. Sure, the world had witnessed massive outbreaks and global pandemics before, and we’ve all seen the history books filled with gruesome tails of the result. The “Plague” or Black death killed an estimated 25% to 50% of Europe’s citizens between 1347 and 1351. The Spanish Flu, Ebola, a series of coronaviruses in the 2020s - humanity has suffered mightily and lost much to these silent killers. But we had always survived, pulled together and emerged stronger. And then everything changed. A new and horrific virus, casually referred to in the media as “The Sickness,” was reported and spread like nothing that had preceded it. Scientists could not classify it, and the suddenness with which it was all around us made contact tracing to its origin impossible. We do know that the Sickness spread first to the more developed nations and populated cities of the world before making its way elsewhere. The virus seemed unperturbed by socioeconomic rankings and unmindful of expectations that power and privilege are normally inversely proportional to infection rates. It seemed to innately desire to attack positions of significant power first. Famous actors and Instagram influencers even got hit in the first wave for goodness sake. The Sickness didn’t kill. Well, at least not at first or in the ways you would think it would. Those that first contracted it seemed to suffer only from reduced mental acuity and poor balance for a week or two. But soon, the body started to mutate, subtly and internally at first, but ultimately completely and in the most grotesque ways. Zombies seemed like a ridiculous word to be throwing around initially, but it would be the closest thing to describing the abhorrent creatures that became of our friends and loved ones. Their deformed faces and olive, diseased skin betrayed the bile bubbling within them. Their stilted, purposeless walk with arms limp at their sides revealed the lack of desire to cling to anything that was once human. As the Sickness raged, infecting everyone with a speed and merciless severity hereto unexperienced in the history of humanity, we realized that death from the virus would have been a welcomed fate versus what came instead. Those infected lost the taste for normal foods within a month, water within two, and ultimately could only be satiated with the flesh of humans or other infected victims. The global infection rate was 15% within six months of the first case, 50% within nine months, and 100% within a year of its introduction. The world’s human population, celebrated as the most evolved species on the planet, was decimated and devolved in roughly a year’s time by the tiniest of microbes. ----------------------------- Some of those microbes lodged deep into Leo’s cells in the earliest days of the infection and made quick work of him. The “Turning” as it is called when the Sickness infects and mutates every cell in your body, leaving you a disgusting shell of your former self, doesn’t tickle. It is excessively painful, it is not a quick process, and it smells. Leo had lived as an only child with his mother in Bentonville, AK where she had worked as a low level WalMart executive assistant for over 30 years. The house was a modified doublewide with red brick fortifications, a small, unkempt lawn, and an attached carport that had collapsed on one side, never to be repaired. Leo had never really known his father, who purportedly owned a CBD shack three counties over that did pretty well and who steadfastly refused to acknowledge any relation to his family. For his part, Leo worked at a vintage music store called “Lionel’s Vinyls” selling the occasional forgotten LP to hipsters and failed musicians for just above minimum wage. When his mother passed following a tragic typewriting accident, Leo soldiered on in what was a fairly lonely existence in that same doublewide. His Turning was excruciatingly painful, but sometimes you have to consider the alternative. He wasn’t there to witness Anna’s Turning. Leo often pictured her body twisting and gurgling in horror, as the virus ravaged her organs and slowly boiled her skin until it turned that fateful drab green. To him, the sheer terror of it was slightly overshadowed by the base sensuality of her young, virile body giving into the overwhelming power of something sinister and unknown. She seemed 5’6 with the humped back and slouch, so maybe more like 5’8 back in those days. He imagined her with model good looks, sun-kissed skin and long golden brown hair. The way she killed with such conviction and never shared the best organs with anyone suggested to Leo that she had likely been very goal-oriented and probably an upper-level manager for some cool tech start-up or maybe an independent business owner. Either way, she wouldn’t have given him the time of day in a normal world, but this world, he knew all too well, was “nnott nurrrmaal.” ----------------------------- What became the norm in this post-apocalyptic hellscape was mass murder on a scale that would have been unimaginable to the pre-Sickness brain. A kind of Hunger Games-like phenomenon developed in every hamlet, town, and city across every country on this planet. Ghoulish zombies formed opportunistically into packs that would work together at first, but ultimately turn on each other until one victor remained. One never knew where you stood with your fellow cannibals. One day, you were working in unnatural unison like a slow-moving herd of Velociraptors hunting your doomed prey, and the next day that same herd was feasting on your small intestines without so much as a “sorry about this, Bob, we got hungry.” Scientists would argue about what caused the sudden escalation of viral intensity and sheer madness in formerly-rationale beings until their dying days, or at least until the Sickness stopped them from being able to think of such things. Climate change was a clear consensus winner, but challenging to prove definitively. Plastics were often blamed, as was the prevalence of digital devices and radio waves that weakened our immune systems and altered our environment. Everyone agreed that social media was obviously destroying the very fabric of our civilization, but that was a slower and arguably more-painful burn. In the end, no one knows what caused it. We just know that it happened, and our world changed. ----------------------------- And that suited Leo just fine. Change was something he could use a little more than most. Anything to be out of that prison of a doublewide and that rut of an existence. To be free of the same old take-out Indian food, the jeering at the hands of the neighbor kids and the long lonely nights. And the longer one survived with the Sickness, the less they remembered of their former life and the more they concentrated solely on two primal urges - devouring human flesh and sex. It’s difficult to say which of these was more disturbing to watch. Years of devouring slasher films had prepared Leo for the sight of human entrails being slurped up casually like the spaghetti-kissing scene out of “Lady and the Tramp.” He hadn’t personally taken to cannibalism as readily as some of the others, but a guy’s gotta eat, and so he could make do when necessary. And, yet, a similar dedication over the years to consuming any and all porn the internet could serve up did not prepare Leo for the disturbing sights and sounds of apocalyptic zombie-sex. It made awkward teenage-sex look like the prize winning crescendo of a Stormy Daniels “Best Of” reel. It was all flailing limbs, unnerving secretions and high pitch yelping. It happened constantly on every street corner, park and lawn. It lasted for hours. And, god, the smell. Obviously, all Leo could think about was what sex with Anna would be like. What it would sound like. What it would smell like. The thought of her that way consumed him. Ever since he had narrowly escaped her oddly powerful death grip by cutting off the lower part of his arm, all he could focus on was getting back to Anna. Admittedly, their relationship was complex and not without risk, but then again what relationship isn’t? One of the only possessions Leo had from his absent father was an old, beer-stained book of poetry of all things that he had accidentally left behind. Leo had read it cover to cover many times. When it came to Anna, it was always Alfred Tennyson’s fateful words that echoed in Leo’s one remaining ear, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Even if that meant the loss of one’s arm or perhaps a vital organ here or there. ----------------------------- Unfortunately, extreme and devastating loss was what befell the world in the awful reckoning of the Sickness. And it happened in less than two years from what we estimate to be the first wave of infections. Zombie nations hungrily reduced themselves to warring zombie factions and ultimately to increasingly-starving, roaming zombie packs. Those infected may have lost their ability to reason and communicate, but they became experts at tracking, hunting and killing with ruthless precision. In the end, we were not annihilated by weapons of mass destruction, but rather our own brute physicality and the awesome power of an unadulterated desire to kill and feed. In this way, the world’s population shrunk from billions to hundreds with the survivors willing to travel great distances to track down the last of their cursed kind. ----------------------------- Only Leo, strangely, longed for something different. Why or how, he did not know, but as the remaining zombies began to close upon him, Leo was given his chance. While ducking awkwardly into an abandoned Nordstrom’s for safe haven, he tripped over two forms squirming on the dusty floor. As he sat up and recovered his bearings, there was Anna, feasting on the remains of her latest victim, blood dripping from her cracked lips. There would never be another opportunity like this. Leo summoned all his courage. “Ith ggoo timme,” he muttered triumphantly to himself. There in the women’s unmentionables section, Leo put it all on the line. He approached Anna cautiously, watching her every move, noting every detail. She wore her kill on the front of her blouse proudly, like Joey Chestnut celebrating his record setting 75 th hot dog at the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog-Eating Contest. There was no fear in her bloodshot eyes, but nor was their rage. She returned Leo’s gaze confidently, and maybe, just maybe, even lovingly. For the first time, Leo felt a connection, someone looking at him for him and not just as the next meal. Each lurched toward the other, their bent limbs cracking in concert as the distance between them shortened to a few feet. Leo braced himself and extended his hand, the good one, towards Anna. The drool extending from the left side of Anna’s mouth cascaded off her chin and danced magically in the wind. Her awful beauty made Leo’s crooked legs buckle. Anna, seeing his hand, paused somewhat questioningly. “Thif isss itt,” he thought. And then it happened. Anna’s veiny hand lifted to meet Leo’s, pausing to caress the bloody cuticles on each of his fingers before fully embracing his limp offering. His dead heart flickered. “Cud thif bee,” Leo dared to ask himself. It felt as if every oozing pore in his body was going to explode and that his crooked frame might actually lift off the ground all at once. And for good reason. For, as Leo stood trance-like contemplating his good fortune, Anna had stabbed him right in the gut with a shard of glass concealed in her other hand and was doggedly working on tearing a jagged line up his unsuspecting abdomen. As his blood hit the floor and began to pool, Leo snapped to and managed to weakly push Anna’s arm back, slowing the progress of his beloved killer. Enraged, Anna reached back to plunge her make-shift knife as deep into Leo’s throat as she could, but suddenly found herself slipping on the very blood she had so casually spilled. She fell backwards and plowed the back of her head into the corner of a marble display counter for women’s plus sized jeans. Whether unconscious, brain dead or just dead dead, Anna did not stir. ----------------------------- As Leo sat in a pool of his own blood, stoically eating what remained of Anna’s once beautiful corpse, he couldn’t help thinking, “thaat Tennnyshinn ith ful of shiit."


Grisha’s alchemy shop was bustling with activity, and not just from the various beasts that walked in to buy ingredients or seek aid from the blind hyena shaman and her apprentices: An odd group had currently taken up residence in the backrooms of her shop. The most noticeable one - a large reptiloid with dark scales, long horns and piercing yellow eyes - sat upon a cushion too small for his frame. His arms were folded as he spoke to a female meerkat who was transcribing everything he said to her leatherbound notebook. “So you and this ‘Ylla’ were at the fields as this battle started, and that’s when you were enslaved by this Margot the Lynx,” the meerkat said trying to recap his story. “Correct, Amber,” the reptiloid replied. Amber continued to work her quill. “And Margot is a servant of The Witch Queen of Vulane. Selthia, who effectively owned you and had you compete in the gladiator fights? Is that right, Draknor?” “Again, correct,” Draknor rumbled his large powerful tail thumping against the floor. “But you busted out during a fight, and made your escape where you eventually met our dear Skreet Snickertooth, rat detective.” Amber said the last part in a sugary sweet tone of voice, as if to rib the rat investigator, even though he was absent. From the shadowy corner a ferret clad in leathers smirked at Amber’s tone. “Yes,” Draknor said, wearily. “And after we deal with our mutual adversary Margot, Skreet will help me find Ylla.” “I’m sure he will.” Amber replied as she finished jotting down her notes. “Then you met Farah over there,” “The amazing Farah,” the ferret corrected. “The best thief in the world.” Amber ignored her and continued her interview. “And then you met me after recovering your sword from those experiments being conducted upon it.” Draknor merely grunted in reply. “Quite the story already, and its still ongoing as we speak!” the meerkat beamed. Draknor regarded her with his piercing eyes. “It’s my turn to ask you a question.” Intrigued, the meerkat’s ears shifted forward. “Oh, do go ahead!” “Why do you talk to Snickertooth the way you do? Why do you speak to him the way you do. He is a rat of courage and integrity, and a keen mind.” Farah couldn’t help but make a snide comment. “Aw, that’s sweet. Look at you Drak, sticking up from ol’ Skreet.” Draknor snorted in response. “Well, I wrote a few books about him and a few of his cases. Books that made him famous. He didn’t appreciate them, or me so I rib him from time to time.” “Rib him?” Draknor asked. “Yes, you know,” Amber said. “Poke him a little. Make sure he’s still alive.” “I don’t understand.” Draknor grunted. “Is this a mammal thing?” Amber ran her quill along her muzzle, trying to think of how best to explain it. Farah broke into the conversation then, “Speaking of Skreet. Is no one going to say it?” “Say what?” Amber and Draknor both asked. “We should keep an eye on Skreet. He just left. By himself. After we’ve made a lot of enemies here.” “I shall go,” Draknor rumbled. Farah shook her head, “Nah, you better stay here,big guy.” Draknor growled. “She’s got a point,” Amber said, surprisingly siding with the ferret. “You do tend to draw attention to yourself.” Farah smirked. “Tell you what: You stay here, and then if we don’t come back soon you can go after us.” Draknor stood, his horns scraping the ceiling, “And how would I find you? This city is an ever-shifting maze.” Farah thought about it for a second. “If you see or hear a phalanx of those silvermasks, follow them - from a distance, of course.” “Why?” Draknor asked. “Well, the way I figure it is that they follow paths around the city that they know because they’re...” Farah gesticulated, as if conjuring the correct word out of the air. “...They’re conditioned to,” Amber the wordsmith added. Farah acknowledged the help. “And eventually you’ll run into the House of the Moon, where we’ll try to rendezvous. Or, eventually, you’ll make a tour of the city and find us...” Farah spoke then: “...or the people who kidnapped us.” “That doesn’t seem efficient at all,” Draknor grumbled. “It’s what we thieves use to navigate the city... although figuring out which platoon is which is quite the task. But it’s the best we’ve got. Besides, we'll be back soon. At least I probably will,” Farah said, giving Amber a side-eye glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Amber asked. “Honey, you’ve got damsel in need of rescue written all over you.” “I resent that, you tart!” Amber hissed. Draknor thumped his sword against the floor, “Stop arguing and trail Skreet already! He’s probably long gone by now! GO!” The two hurried out of Grisha’s alchemy shop and into the fine rain of the ever-rainy city. The two quickly merged into the evening crowd of middle and upper class creatures and their families touring the marketplace before seeing Skreet. He had gone a ways down the street, but thankfully he hadn’t gone too far. Neither Farah nor Amber drew too close, they didn’t call out to him either. Best he didn’t know he was being followed. “I wonder how long it will take him to figure out we’re tailing him?” Farah asked. “Good question, he’s an experienced investigator,” Amber added. Just then something unexpected happened: a beautiful white mink was suddenly at Skreet’s side. “Who’s that?” Amber asked. “I don’t know, but I’m envious of her dress,” Farah replied. The two eavesdropped on the conversation, wondering just who this mink was. Friend or foe? “Rask? Rask, is that you? Oh, Rask! How wonderful to see you again!” ‘Rask’? Skreet replied before he seemed to run with the name. “Spinrave isn’t it? Well, fancy meeting you here.” Spinrave smiled as she took his arm, “Fancy indeed. You’ve been making quite a name for yourself. I was hoping we would meet again. Come with me.” “A ‘name for myself’?” “Yes, you and your little... and large... friends. Some very... interesting creatures wish to speak to you, but I think it best if you come out of the rain... If you trust me, that is.” To Amber’s dismay she saw Skreet walking with Spinrave. “What’s he doing? Why is he going with her?” Amber questioned. Farah’s tail twitched, “She’s charming him, I can smell those intoxicating fumes from here. Smell that? That oh-too-sweet perfume smell?” “We should save him,” Amber said. “Or we can follow and see where she takes him. Come on. How’s that investigative instinct?” Amber scowled, “Fine you’ve got a point. It would make for a better story anyway. I think I’ll call it something like, ‘Seduced in the Rain.’” “Might want to workshop that title, sounds more like those romance novels... Which I definitely don’t read, or keep under my pillow.” Amber twitched an ear at that. Skreet and ‘Spinrave’ walked directly into one of the thousands of taverns in the damp, dark city and into an interior that was even darker. Farah and Amber made their way through the throngs of creatures who were making their way to the Entertainment District and all of Selthia’s delights and dipped into the tavern. It was multiple stories, so perhaps they had rooms for the weary traveler. The inside was raucous. Sea rats and weasels just off from working in the Docks district - which had a curfew - smoked pipes and drank ale while cats and various vermin massaged aching muscles - for a price. They got in just in time to see Skreet’s and the mink’s tails walking up the red-carpeted staircase to the upper levels. “Let’s go.” Farah nodded to Amber. They didn’t make it too far up the stairs till they paused. A large, female panther from the Southern continent, her burly arms crossed as she watched for any but paying customers from entering the second and third floors. “Well that complicates things,” Amber muttered. “Maybe we can bribe her?” “Don’t worry I’ve got a plan in my devious mind.” Farah said, rubbing her paws together. Skreet found himself smiling like an idiot as Spinrave continued to talk to him, her voice like a melody as she led him through the plush third floor of the inn-tavern. Part of the rat’s mind was still rational, though, wondering why he was going along with her so much... but the other part seemed to have hijacked his muscles and speech. Spinrave had long solved the mystery of her friend - through wanted posters, rumors, and Margot. He was not ‘Rask,’ he was Skreet Snickertooth, and he and his friends were moving through Vulane like a whirlwind. It was no longer amusing. “Corrupt him,” Selthia had said in her office, enchanted with the false night sky on her ceiling. “And if you really like him, keep him as a pet.” Spinrave was fine with that arrangement. She served Margot, and by extension Selthia. If her mistress ordered it, it was as good as done. He would make a wonderful pet. “I ordered some wine for the room,” Spinrave said softly. “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Skreet muttered. “You can drink, and drink, and never have a hangover. We shall enjoy the time we have together... for a long time to come, my handsome rat,” Spinrave said, smiling shyly and holding his paw as she unlocked a large wooden door. But as they prepared to step through a voice called out to Spinrave as a female cat ran with a note in her paw. “Spinrave! Spinrave... you’ve been called out.” Spinrave flattened her ears, “I don’t have time for that right now. Tell this challenger to tottle off.” The cat shook her head. “You know the ancient rites of the Entertainers’ Guild - This is a public challenge. With all the right words.” Spinrave dragged a paw across her muzzle, “Ugh, fine. My dear Rask, I must attend to... some upstart downstairs. Have some wine and wait for my return. Then the fun will really begin.” she winked flirtatiously. She practically shoved Skreet through the door before locking it and marching downstairs, the dress she wore would serve its purpose for a dance. Might even get her blood pumping for some more fun later. In the well-appointed room Skreet shook his head, his mind still slightly addled as he sat on the plush bed noticing the glass of wine on the nightstand. His mouth watered: something about that glass was very inviting. As if it were singing a song for his ears alone. Downstairs in the common room around the stage the crowd was already worked up in a frenzy, they let out an uproar as Spinrave made her appearance. “Who challenges me?” She demanded. “I do sweetie,” Farah stood on the stage arms folded across her chest. The room of half-drunk, licentious laborers nearly exploded. “Damn I love this town,” a searat could be heard saying. “I love and hate it,” someone else retorted. She had had time since issuing the challenge to change into one of the many performer costumes, and had opted for a belly dancer ensemble. A shimmering skirt that showed a fair bit of leg, and a sparkly croptop. Bracelets adorned her arms, and anklets on her feet. “Cute outfit.” Spinrave said coldly as she tossed her coat aside revealing her short dress. “Musicians!” Spinrave ordered. Meanwhile Skreet was just about to raise the glass to his muzzle when the door suddenly flew open. A familiar meerkat covered in scratches stumbled in, her fur disheveled as she carried Farah’s prized lockpicking set. “Oh, no! Not you,” Skreet muttered as Amber crossed to him and shook him by the shoulders causing the glass to fall and shatter upon the floor. “Snap out of it fool!” Amber cried out, but the dopey expression would not leave the rat’s face. “I’m waiting for her. The enchanting Spinrave.” Amber scowled. “Fine, you leave me no choice.” Grabbing a candle nearby, the meerkat jammed the lit wick into his arm eliciting a cry of pain. The smell of burned hair filled the room. “Gaaaah!” Skreet stood up. “Amber, what in the hells?” “Got control of your faculties yet?” the meerkat asked. Skreet blinked. “Yeah... oh, Gods. I let myself end up here?” He could remember everything, as though he’d awoken from a pleasant dream. Part of him - a quiet, less hard-boiled part - wanted to stay in that dream. “Let’s get out of here, rat!” Amber declared. Skreet nodded as his paws went to his pair of fighting sticks under his coat. “Yeah.” Back in the common area two musilide ladies were having a fierce duel. Not with swords or fists, but in dance. Farah shimmied her hips, arms above her head as the crowd roared, Spinrave in response was performing an impressive set of spins - her specialty. “Not bad sweetie,” Farah commented. “Not good enough to win.” Spinrave smiled sweetly. “Worry about yourself, thief.” The mink bowed low, her rear towards the crowd. Another explosion of claps and whistles. Farah was unperturbed, or at least made it seem so, for deep down she was alarmed. She had been recognized? But she was so cautious. She was too good! How did someone recognize her? She wasn’t going to let Spinrave know she got to her. “Oh, and what do thieves do, besides be good dancers?” Farah asked as she leaned backwards towards the crowd in a display of flexibility, her abs were still rolling as she did so. “Steal things. Like your fans. Your stuff. ...Your date.” Spinrave clenched her muzzle shut, her focus off. “Oh, you clever... this is a distraction.” Her rhythm stopped and the crowd booed. “It’s too late by now. Might as well share.” Farah grinned. “Well done! Well danced.” Spinrave shouted as she gave Farah a forced hug, her muzzle inches from Farah’s ear. “Mistress Selthia, and Mistress Margot, asked me to corrupt your rat friend’s mind. Your group has drawn the ire of some important people.” “You work for Margot. Tell me where to find her. She won’t be happy you failed.” Farah hissed. Spinrave drew Farah closer. “Losing one of Selthia’s prized treasures put her on the outs. It’s a race for your large, reptiloid friend. Margot’s in the Fogs, sending agents across the city.” The two broke the embrace giving each other an almost genuine bow, before they parted ways, the crowd still cheering. Farah caught Amber and Skreet descending the staircase. There was much to be done.


It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon. I rummage through the selection of tea that we keep on the windowsill over the kitchen counter, stacked on top of one another, with no label facing the same direction and no one brand alike. Boxes, jars, and tubes all jangled on top of one another. The choices were unique in their own ways: there was chamomile, one of her favorites but perhaps too pedestrian; an orange and cranberry blend I had picked up at a used bookstore; lavender and vanilla crème that was more luxuriant than pleasant but she might be in that mood this evening; apple spice of which she had tried one bag and declared it gross; traditional English breakfast, but that was too caffeinated for an evening tea; and lastly there was peppermint, but the weather was turning chilly outside, so that may not fit the temperament of the evening. This is surely hell. I don’t want to rush to judgement about the tea selection. The kettle will take a long time to get to temperature and the tea situation is finicky enough as is and deserves some thought. One false move here and the entire evening could be ruined, she could feel unloved, unseen, and misunderstood by the man who is supposed to love, see, and understand her. I stand over the sink and glance at each tea individually and simulate her response to each cup. This was always my favorite time of the evening, the time just before she came home. In the small gap that existed between the realization that she would be home soon and her arrival I felt light, effervescent even. I felt the way that I imagine dogs do when they hear the car door shut in the driveway but before they have seen the human walk through the door. There is this moment of tension, a brilliant anticipation like a childhood Christmas, where you realize that bliss is just a few moments away. Of course, when the bliss comes it may not have all the shimmer and gaiety that you imagined, but I’m not so sure that matters but so much. If the anticipation and buildup beforehand gives you that glee that makes the moment ahead seem perfect and then you have the memory of it that lingers and fits nicely into a pocket that you can make nostalgic the moment it’s over, does that brief moment where it’s out of focus matter nearly as much as what’s around it? But she’ll be back soon, all the same. I can already just see her car kicking a cloud of dirt up behind her as she drives down the long gravel road. I’ll have my forehead pressed against the window by my chair in the living room, my breath will be fogging up the glass, the oils from my skin will be leaving their greasy traces on the pane itself. I’ll trick myself, I always do. I’ll see a neighbor and begin to get excited, but will have to come back to earth when I realize it’s not her. Or, I’ll convince myself that the rustling of the trees on the winding driveway is actually me seeing her car move down the road. I’ll convince myself of it for a few moments, but I know, deep down, that I’m lying to myself. This tea situation, though, is pestering me. I want the tea to be perfect. I think I’ve timed the kettle just right so that just as she comes around the bend in the road and I can first see her car that its whistle will sing out. If I’m too early with the timing of the kettle then it becomes a balancing act of keeping the water at the appropriate temperature and if I’m too late then either she has to wait longer when she gets in or I’m going to be serving lukewarm tea to her. Naturally, the question arises as to why not just start the kettle earlier since the tea has to steep and this is all about her getting tea, but it’s not just that. It’s about setting the atmosphere and she loves to steep. She bobs the bag up and down with a finger dipping in and out of the hot water and she barely registers a twinge. Her mind begins to unpack itself in those moments, the mental decompression process occurs and by the time the tea has steeped, and her finger has perhaps taken on a slightly pinkish hue, her mental stretching is complete and she is ready to embrace the evening. But what choice of tea I make matters. This is surely hell. Flipping through the tea selection a few more times I finally make a choice: chamomile. She loves chamomile and perhaps it will be just the thing to lull her off after a day at the office. I open the box and pull out the perfect bag. I hold it to my nose and breathe in and the spices and leaves smell absolutely amazing. I just know that she’ll love it I feel the twinges of excitement knotting in my stomach. They rise and fall, die and are reborn, over and over again. Just as I think that I may have gotten adjusted to the excitement a brand new wave strikes me all over again and I flutter off of my toes, gliding around with hope that tonight will be perfect. I’ve cleaned the kitchen and folded the laundry; I’ve picked up her favorite ice cream, which I will surprise her with after she’s finished her tea; and I’ve even given the dog a bath and put an adorable new collar on her. She’s our pride and joy, a stray that picked us above anyone else. She just arrived one day and planted her flag in our hearts. We love to take turns holding her, letting her lick our faces, rubbing her behind the ears and watching her eyes roll back as she squints from how nice the petting feels. I can’t hear her now so she must be sleeping. She’ll be snuggled up on the sofa, in a perfect little circle or perhaps she’ll be stretched out with a paw gently covering her eyes. The dog will be almost as excited as I will be when she gets home. The dog will jump from the couch and run around the house and maybe even jump on her. With the tea, that might not be a good idea. Maybe I should get the dog up now so she isn’t but so excited, get the dog primed to see her since it will only be another minute or two at most. “Baby!” I say, my voice bright and happy. I know that I’m supposed to hear the jangle of the new collar and the tapping of her nails on the floor, but I don’t. “Baby, come here, girl!” I say, louder this time. Still, nothing comes in response to me. “Baby!” I say, a little bass in my voice and whistle. The whistle carries on and on, my lips quivering. I know she won’t come. Surely this is hell. The kettle whistles, high and loud over everything, screaming into my ears and filling the kitchen with noise, but I can’t move to stop it, to take it off the burner, because it’s coming back now, why the moment is so powerful, why it feels so good. This is hell. I can’t breathe. I want to vomit up the air that I’m choking on and my eyes and lungs burn so painfully that I wish I could just die. The waves of pain are powerful, they overwhelm me and almost buckle me to the floor. The realization is the true pain. One moment, one flash in time that is the most utterly painful, that is surely what hell makes us suffer. And that is where I am. My wife will ever come home to me and my dog will never answer because neither are there and that is the hell in which I find myself. Forever on the precipice of a happy moment, perhaps the happiest moment of my life, only to have it ripped away from me with this realization. She is not there, though she once was. She came home and I had her chamomile tea ready. She thanked me, kissed me on the cheek, and spilled just a little tea on herself when the dog jumped up to give her a kiss. We talked and petted the dog and loved the new collar. When I showed her the ice cream she cried just a little and said I was wonderful for thinking of her and that she was a very lucky woman. This was the happiest I had ever been. Eternal pain is easy because you can resign yourself at a certain point. If you know you’re going to lose a battle or die at a certain time, there is a dignity, and almost a kind of victory, in surrender. The torture lies in hope. The faintest glimmer of a chance being shown and then snatched away. This is my torture. I relive the knowledge that everything is lost and that I am alone and that it has been many eternities since I have seen my love and it will be infinitely more before I may rest. I feel the fresh cut of loss every day and then the realization of my time spent here sets in, and the further realization that I will feel this way again and again. I have relived her loss countless times with nothing to do to even dull the pain. The kettle has been singing out but it begins to dwindle. Maybe I’ve been standing in awe of everything for so long that the water’s burned down. I reach out and turn off the burner. “I miss you,” I say to no one, running my hands along the outside of the hot aluminum. It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon.


Once opon a time. Far off in a land of sun. A small girl lived in a Village deep in the valley. Day in and out she did her duties of the home. For she was the only one of her kin left to care for her elderly mother.Every night the girl would read her stories and look up in the sky and imagine for a better place far off from the home she found herself. Alone in her world, she continued through the motions of her existence. Doing just enough that kept her and her mother cared for. But one day, a terrible beast attacked her humble village, while All the good men sworn to protect it were off to distant lands to return riches to the poor town. No one seemed to be able to fight the beast. The monster stormed the village ruining homes and and eating all the food stored. And while the rest of the women and children fled. The girl stood up against the beast with nothinh but a pitch fork. Something happened inside the girl. She came to realise a great gift in herself, she was without fear. She lunged herself towards the monster. Doing what she could to try and scare it off. With one hard swing of the monsters claws she was thrown away. As she stood again to face the monster. From behind her approached someone, A wounded knight on a scarlet steed stepped down from his horse to lend a hand to the maiden. Together, Standing with the knight the girl was able to slay the beast. Her taking a final blow at its heart. In a puff of smoke the beast disappeared in the wind. And as the village gathered to see the aftermath the knight dropped to his knee in pain. The girl was no stranger to remedies of her heritage. And took the lone knight in to care for him. In only a night. The girls life has changed for all of a sudden she felt she had a purpose. And her life had become what she dreamt for. Over months. The the village was rebuilt and the food stores filled. Only now the girl spent her time healing the knight. From dusk till dawn the girl spent with the knight. A mutual fondness growing between them as the knight taught and showed her wonders of lands far from what she has known. Soon enough the knight felt at home with her and did what he could to help around the village. Spending his nights with the girl. And when apart, in their dreams they were together still till they came together again in the day. Joy and color filled the world for them both. But alas. It was short lived. The Knight, you see, was posessed. A demon that not even the pure love and all the remedies the girl concoted could cure him. With heavy heart, and pain strangling his soul. The knight had to go. To go fight the demon that keeps him ill. Knowing only when the demon was expunged could he return and honor the young girl as he truelly knows is right. As the knight rode off in the twilight sun. The young girl wept as her love went away and The shadows creeped towards the villiage once again. The young girl returned to her daily duties, caring for her mother, tending the gardens. And as time passed she grew ever more beautiful. And many suitors came to her door with promises of a happy future. But none would sucessede in winning her heart forever the way her knight conquered her nightmares. So today she still waits for her knights return. And even in sorrow she finds some solace in knowing. No matter how hard the loneliness was , or how far apart they were. The young girl was always with her knight every time she dreamt. And she knew with her soul, that she was always in the heart and dreams of her brave knight. "Untill we meet again, ever truly yours. Your brave Knight.


The night sky lit up momentarily as lightning leapt again through the heavens, reflecting on the still, mirror-like sea. Moments later there followed a low rumble of thunder, disturbing the otherwise serene beauty of the landscape. “It’s getting closer”, he thought, as the distant lightning flashed its tendrils across the midnight sky, leaving him once again plunged into darkness. Sighing, he pulled himself further up the piece of wood and out of the chilling, black water. He gazed up at the stars, barely glimmering above him, and then looked over towards the looming storm. He pulled his long brown cloak tighter about him, hoping its fabric, though sodden, might offer some warmth. But it was no good: the water had chilled him deeper than his bones, seemingly to his very soul. He thought back to that moment: the sound of men screaming like children; the sight of burning bodies tumbling over the wooden rails of the ship and into the murky water; and, worst of all, the smell, the foul smell. He shuddered as he tried to banish the gloomy thoughts from his mind. Several days had passed since that ill-fated moment, yet still he clung to hope that someone would find him, clutching his splintered piece of wood. Clinging on to life itself. Another flash; more thunder. Something caught his attention. He lifted his head from where it rested on the wood, groaning with the effort, his malnourished body struggling to accomplish even so simple a task. He peered intently into the darkling gloom. “Land?”, he thought to himself. He pushed himself up with both arms, raising himself as high as he dared. Not far off, towards the storm, he could see a small rock thrusting out of the dark water. He let out a sob of relief and began paddling frantically towards this small island and the relative safety it might offer. As he neared the rock, he slowed, once again straining upwards to see it more clearly. It was perfectly round and not very tall, jutting only a few feet above the waterline. Frowning, he continued paddling. A slight breeze was now coming from the direction of the storm, and with it came a stench, filling his nostrils with a rotten, tainted smell. He squirmed uncomfortably on his board as memories of that night came flooding back: tentacles the size of trees thrashing at the ship on which he’d served; teeth the size of tombstones grinding through its wooden hull. Another flash illuminated the sky, its light reflecting off the lonely rock before him. Only then did he realise it was no rock. He stared in horror, gazing into the yawning depths of a huge, black eye that stared right back into him, transfixing his gaze and piercing his very soul. Without warning, he felt something grip his ankle with vicelike strength and begin to pull him down into the inky depths below. An involuntary scream escaped his lips and his lungs filled with icy water.


No More Always Wanted It wasn’t raining, though all the people walking with big coats in the grey street felt it would be soon. The afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog in search of the right place drop. Dustin’s numb hands were holding a bucket. The bucket, which had a sign on it that said *College Money*, was holding exactly nineteen dollars and sixteen cents. Foggy breath was left behind as talking people walked past. Dustin watched it float upwards and disappear, changing from red to green to gold with the Christmas lights in the shop windows. He knew it wouldn’t be enough money. He had been standing on the cold corner of Market Street since 10 o’clock in the morning, and only four people had made donations. The first had been his English teacher, Ms MacColl, who had been on her way to do some seasonal shopping when she’d seen him and said “I believe in you, Dustin.” The wrinkles on her face had transformed into an encouraging smile as she presented a five dollar note. The second person had been Isabelle Crosland, who was the same age as Dustin, and had caused him to daydream extensively after she’d let yet another five dollar note fall into his bucket with a wink. The third person Dustin hadn’t known at all; a young man in a long black coat swinging a carrier bag of rattles and clinks had stopped to ask: “What do you want to study?” “Literature.” “Why?” “I love telling stories.” “Then you must never stop,” the young man had instructed, handing a folded ten dollar bill to the boy. The fourth and final person had been playing guitar just across the street since roughly 11 a.m. Dustin was quite sure that he was homeless, but didn’t say anything except *thank you* when the musician gave him sixteen cents before moving along to another spot. At one point, Dustin bought a fresh-cream chocolate éclair and a coke from a nearby bakery. This had cost a total of one dollar. Thus, he was left with nearly twenty. As the roads became less busy, the twelve year old boy began to walk home. He wasn’t sure how to feel about his venture. The night was creeping across the sky and yellow street lamps flickered on as Dustin turned left onto Luck Lane. He felt touched that some people he knew and some who he didn’t had helped him, but he was sure that twenty dollars wouldn’t be enough to change the situation with his parents. In fact, he thought that he would probably have to spend all the weekends until he left school holding that bucket on various streets to raise enough money to make any kind of difference. But Dustin was a fighter. Even though, when he had asked if he would be able go to university and become a writer one day, his mother and father had explained to him all sorts of things about money and taxes and insurance and medical costs, he still remembered that when he was younger, they had always told him that he could be whatever he wanted to be. Dustin still wanted to believe it, so as he reached the end of Luck Lane he reassured himself: “I can be whatever I want to be.” However, he said it quite loudly, and that may have been a big mistake, because just then he heard heavy footsteps running towards him. “What’s in your bucket, boy?” said one of the three men who had just appeared behind him. Dustin knew he shouldn’t stop walking. He knew he should run, but for some reason he couldn’t. “Give us the bucket!” said another man, looking around to make sure there was nobody else on the shadowy road. “No!” shouted Dustin, as he turned and started running as fast as he could. In school he would often win races - but the men were faster than his classmates, and within seconds they were in front of him. There was a very loud slapping sound and Dustin fell backwards onto the floor, one hand still holding onto the bucket, one hand pressed against his burning left cheek. Someone ripped the plastic container out of his fingers. By the time he’d gotten to his feet again, all three of them (and his nineteen dollars and sixteen cents) were gone. He didn’t even get a chance to memorize their faces. Dustin sat down on the cold cobble-stones. He wanted to say a lot of rude words, but he just stared at the wall. His shoulders were shivering and his fists were squeezing at the air. All he could think was *what just happened? Why would they do that?* He hoped his Dad would come running round the corner, or the nice homeless musician would suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and say something like *here, I got it back for you.* But the street was empty. After a long time, Dustin stood up. He stared at his feet, hoping that soon they would start walking for him. But they were too cold and too stunned. His shoes were tied up with the standard two bows hanging on either side of each foot. His laces were mainly white, with a few grey smudges, and the material below them was a navy blue. He started to think about all the things people he knew had in common - like hair and eyes and ears and noses and brains and clothes and shoes. He even knew two boys in his class who had the same shoes as him. Dustin started to think that maybe his parents had been mistaken: maybe he was just like everyone else, and his dream to become a great writer was just something silly that he’d convinced himself could happen. Maybe his shoes would best be used for kicking balls and learning to run faster and walking to and from school and, in the future, to and from work. The young boy looked up from his feet. He noticed a line of graffiti all alone in pretty, curvy red writing stretching along the top of the wall. He’d never seen it before, and he often walked down Luck Lane. He read it. It said: *I could have been someone.* He recognised it from a Christmas song his parents would sometimes listen to. He remembered the next line in the song: ‘*well so could anyone.’* For a few more moments, Dustin was still. He was thinking deeply. “I can be whatever I want to be,” he whispered to himself, a tear cooling the place where one of the men had hit him. His right foot lunged forwards. \* Luck lane was quite a busy street during the daytime. It had a number of banks on it, some shoe shops, some clothes shops and a sweet shop. The sweet shop, whose window was just opposite the line of graffiti Dustin had noticed, was owned by a very nice old lady with white hair called Ms Sow. Ms Sow had seen the graffiti on Saturday, just like Dustin. There was a lot of crime in the area, so Ms Sow didn’t give too much thought to it - but on Monday morning, when she noticed another line just underneath the words *I could have been someone*, she rubbed down her sugary rainbow apron the way she always did and complained to a customer: “There seem to be more and more troublemakers around these days - Look! They’re spraying everywhere!” Dustin happened to be waiting in the queue to buy some lemon bonbons just as Ms Sow had said it. When he left the shop, he spent a few moments looking at the new sentence. It made him smile: **“I’d bet you’re wonderful,”** someone had written in a heavy but neat, black paint. As Dustin gazed at it, he noticed a few people around him slowed to read it before continuing on their way. By Tuesday, Ms MacColl was one of the people who had stopped briefly to read the graffiti conversation that was slowly taking place on the wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane. The curvy red style of writing had replied: “What makes you say that?” By Thursday, many people, including Isabelle Crosland, were talking about the graffiti conversation. The black ink had replied: **“From what you wrote, you must have dreams. And I like your handwriting.”** And below that the red ink said: “I’ve always wanted to be a singer.” On Saturday too, Dustin found himself standing and smiling amongst a crowd of people marvelling at the dialogue. **“I’ve always wanted to be a songwriter,”** the black ink remarked. “For some reason, I think you could make it,” the red offered. **“Well, so could anyone,”** said the black. By the following Wednesday all the people of the town knew about the graffiti conversation. Even Dustin’s parents walked in their big coats through the grey streets to see it. On Wednesday night, Dustin asked his parents again about becoming a writer. “Of course you can write in your spare time,” Dustin’s father had said, “but I just don’t think that it would be a very stable job.” “Your Dad’s right, Dustin,” his mother had added. “These are hard times, and we don’t want to get your hopes up. You can be whatever you want to be - you can write whatever you want to write - but for now you mustn’t forget to concentrate in all of your subjects because they’ll be important for getting a good job.” “But I want to change the world and tell wonderful stories that everyone will hear and I want to spend all of my time doing that!” Dustin explained. “I know I can do it. What if I can prove it to you?” “We’d love to read anything you’ve written,” his Mother smiled, warmly. “We’re not saying you shouldn’t follow your dreams, Dustin. But it’s like the graffiti on Luck Lane - the people writing it have probably tried working as musicians - they probably still try, but it’s very difficult to get into.” His father spoke kindly. “And a college course for writing is very expensive.” Dustin understood. He knew that he was only twelve years old, and that probably meant he was too young for his parents to think he was being very serious. He had often wondered how old he would have to be for people to consider him seriously as a writer. Fourteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? Twenty? Probably older. But Dustin was a fighter. On Thursday morning, the afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog. “Would you like to meet up?” The red writing asked. By Friday, the black had replied: **“The bench on the hill in Windmill Park? 4 p.m.? Tomorrow?”** Dustin spent Friday evening by the graffiti wall with his bucket asking for donations to help him become a writer. Lots of people gave him a few coins and by the time he went home, he’d made twenty seven dollars and thirty six cents. That night he finished writing a short story on his mother’s computer. “Yes.” Read the red ink on Saturday morning. The whole town was excited. They all wanted to see who was having the graffiti conversation. On Saturday afternoon, Dustin went to a photocopying shop and printed out a few copies of his short story using some of the money from his bucket. At 2 p.m., Dustin showed his short story to his parents. They said it was brilliant. At 3.30 p.m., the clouds had finally made up their minds. It had begun to rain. Despite this, it seemed that the entire town had decided it would be a good time to go to the park. Hundreds of people were gathered in a ring of whispers and umbrellas around the empty bench on the hill at Windmill Park. At 3.45 p.m., Dustin managed to push to the front row, only a few feet away from the empty bench. He waited. At 3.55 p.m., the crowd was very loud. At 3.58., the crowd hushed. At 3.59., the crowd was nearly silent. At 3.59 and thirty seconds, the rain could be clearly heard hitting against the leaves of trees. At 3.59 and fourty five seconds, nobody moved a muscle. At 4 p.m exactly., everyone watched as Dustin walked towards the bench. Everyone held their breath. Dustin climbed up and stood on the bench. He could see Ms MacColl - and Isabelle Crossland - and a young man in a long black coat wearing a joyful smile - and the homeless musician - and a group of three guilty looking men - and another hundred faces with open mouths. Dustin turned in circles on top of the bench looking at the silent people. He blinked the rain out of his eyes. He couldn’t help but smile. Nobody could look away. Slowly and dramatically, Dustin put his arms out to either side of him as if he were reaching out to the surrounding people. He kept his legs straight and began bending forwards - further and further until he was looking at the ground. He straightened, turned slightly to the side, and repeated the action. He was bowing to his audience. “The truth is -“ he shouted at the top of his voice “I was walking home and I saw a line of graffiti that said *I could have been someone.* And that single, beautiful line of graffiti gave me the idea to write the rest!” The people were quiet. “You see, the truth is -“ he repeated as loud as he could. “I want to be a writer! And I believe you can be whatever you want to be! And to prove it to myself and to my parents, I invented a story and characters and wrote that story on that wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane! And now I know - and my parents must know as well - that it was a good story - because you are all here to hear the ending!” At 4.02 p.m., as Dustin finished his sentence, his parents approached the bench. They were each carrying cardboard boxes containing copies of the short story that Dustin had written on his mother’s computer and printed out at the photocopying shop. “Collecting money to become a writer!” Dustin shouted over the sound of the rain. “Collecting money to become a writer! Pay however much you would like for a short story!” The crowd of silent faces tore open with surprise and applause and cheers. People turned to whomever they were with and smiled. Some even hugged each other. However, even as many nice people approached to buy a copy of his short story, (which was entitled *No More Always Wanted*), Dustin suspected it wouldn’t make enough money to send him to college. Still, at the very least he did feel that he had made a lot of people happy that day - he was sure that they would remember what had happened and that they might even pass it on to their friends. Maybe his parents and other people would start to take the fact that he’d *always wanted* to become a writer more seriously. And if his plan didn’t work out and people didn’t start to recognize that he was meant to be a writer - he’d make another plan - because Dustin was a fighter - and he knew he could be whoever he wanted to be.