“You came...” The impossibly old man raises a weary and frail hand in greeting, it does not quite reach the heights it once did, it barely hangs half way to its intended destination, as though it forgot what it was supposed to do. John supposes that this is how it goes at this age, the wiring is wearing out and the signal is weak. “I did,” John says, his voice is quieter than he’d intended. Even after all this time, he feels strained. He eyes the old man and wonders how he got so old. Not for the first time, he wonders where all the years have gone, but he knows the answer to that. He’s been busy. He made himself busy and he remained stubborn, fending off the eventuality of this very day. “I didn’t think you would,” says the old man, “not now...” He smiles and his rheumy eyes shine with a life that once filled every inch of this failing body. The body is now weak, but the power of the man who once was endures. John shifts uncomfortably, still at a disadvantage after all this time. “You’re dying,” John says, his voice even quieter, diminished somehow. “And about time too,” says the old man. “Don’t say that,” John snaps. The old man perks up a little and observes John with shrewd eyes. John anticipates a rebuke that does not materialise, “I’ve had a good innings,” he says instead, “outlived everyone around me.” John smarts at this, there was a rebuke after all. John hasn’t been around this man. Not for a very, very long time. The old man sees this, “please sit awhile, I am so glad you came.” “How could I not?” asks John as he takes a seat by the old man’s bed. The old man raises an eyebrow, they both know the answer to that question of John’s. John has not been to visit the old man in many a year. John sighs, “I am old too...” “Not to me you’re not,” says the old man fondly, “you will always be my little boy.” John sighs again and almost tells his estranged father not to say such things. It is with a will that he stays his tongue. “Even after all this time?” his father asks. John glares at him, “you haven’t changed,” he says in an angry monotone. His father seems to give the very slightest shakes of his head. It could be his shot nervous system, but John doubts it and he dislikes him for the movement, “you still cling to that? You were never going to change me, Sparrow.” Sparrow. His father’s name for him from since before he could remember. A name that he should have outgrown during his childhood, but never did. Not as far as his father was concerned anyway. John is no longer the young, flighty child that he was, but his heart leaps at that name. No one else used it. It was theirs and theirs alone. “I wanted you to...” John tapers off. He wasn’t going to say change, they both know that. There is so much he could say, but even now, the words do not come. “Still stubborn...” his father smiles again, “bad family trait, that. On both sides.” John’s hackles rise. Even after all this time he rises up against his father in defence of his other family. Prepared to fight this old man. Frightened of a spent force and standing up to him all the same. This despite the major players all being gone now. John is now that family’s only representative, but he barely registers this, it is habit and old habits die hard. “Yeah well,” John says sharply, “you don’t have to worry about that side anymore.” Now the old man does shake his head, “I take it you are referring to your Mum’s death? That was what? Ten years ago?” “More like twenty,” John corrects him. “Yes,” his father says, “I suppose it is. Time flies, especially when you’re an old fart like me.” John looks uncomfortably at the fragile figure of the man who was once his Dad, “why didn’t you...” Again he trails off, but the question lays between them all the same. “You knew, but I told you all the same,” the old man draws in a deep, laboured breath, “I was always here for you. You walked away, it was for you to return to me , not for me to chase you to the four corners of the Earth.” “But you were my Dad!” his voice is high-pitched. Pleading. Childlike. “Still am,” the old man states. “You were supposed to...” John begins. He is becoming increasingly annoyed and frustrated at his inability to make himself clear. He has after all had plenty of time to formulate his words. He has imagined time and time again how it would be when he saw this man again. If he ever saw his father again. “There you go again,” says the old man. John rolls his eyes, “not this again...” “You wanted to dictate how it was I should be. You wanted to mould me into what you thought was an ideal. Where do you think you got that from?” John glares at the old man and all coherent thought is banished. Even after the best part of twenty years, the loss of his mother hits hard, as does the freefall his life went into after that. Underlying all of this is the terrible thought that his Dad might have been right. John cannot concede that point, his life is so heavily invested in his being right and his father being wrong and that is all there is to it. The old man watches him awhile, hoping that the anger will abate. Hoping that John will come to himself. Hoping against hope that he will see the little boy he raised. The one who was the pea in his pod. The child who had existed in this world before the complete, unwarranted and inexplicable rejection. A rejection forged in the grip of a woman clinging on too tightly to a little boy she did not want to see grow up and leave her. And he never did leave her. The old man knows that John never left the house he shared with his mother. He never married. Just like his mother, he failed to move on. He failed to launch, and this went against everything the old man was about and everything they had shared together as the boy was growing up. Father and son had been inseparable. They had shared so much. Their time together was never dull, even when they sat together and watched a film after a day out in the wilds, the bond between them fizzed with life and energy. The old man devoted himself to his only child and was constantly reminded of what was important in life, he learnt from John even as he taught the little lad all he knew, all that was important to know in order to go out into the world and stand on his own two feet. All of that was torn apart in a moment that was a long time coming. John’s mother wanted different things for John. John’s mother wanted control. She accommodated his father under a watchful sufferance and made darn sure that John knew where his allegiances lay. When he was very young, she questioned him unceasingly about his time with his father until John was in the habit of going full disclosure on his Dad. John’s mother would show her displeasure at what she heard of John’s time with his father. Unhappy at the undue risks a father exposes his children to, she managed this father out to the margins of life, so that John was clear on what and who was important. The old man rolled with this. What else could he do? Besides, his bond with John was strong and nothing could tear them apart. Or so he had thought. In believing this, he walked blindly into the worst of moments. When the hammer blow came, John’s father was devastated and crushed. The pain was beyond anything he could have imagined. But again, what could he do? He couldn’t force his boy to do anything and he wouldn’t resort to that. Reason was the only way forward as far as the man was concerned, but neither John nor his mother would ever see reason. The old man inwardly sighs as he sees that John will not let go, not even after all these years. He will never see reason, but it is enough that he is here. This is more than the old man had ever hoped for, after the first weeks and months of rejection rolled over him and crushed the very life out of him. He has to ask the question all the same, he tries to ask it as gently as is possible, “what brought you here, today of all days?” All of a sudden, John looks shaken and somehow smaller. Vulnerable. The old man’s heart goes out to him and all he sees is his little boy. The boy he would take in his arms and reassure with a hug and words of support and advice, helping him to see a way through to a brighter place. Raising his head and urging him forward. Onwards and upwards. Always onwards, ever upwards. “I’m dying,” he tells his father. A dreadful silence falls over the room. The old man is angry, but he does not want to respond with anger. His anger is justified and yet it is not. Why did John wait all this time to come to see him? He should never have walked away. Now, in reconciling himself with his father, he is taking it all away again, only this time with a cruel finality that cannot be argued with. What a waste! “You and me both, Sparrow...” says the old man sadly. They sit in silence some more. Then the old man speaks to dispel the silence, not wanting to waste these precious moments that they still have afforded to them, “how long have you got?” “Not long,” John whispers, his face contorting as he fights his tears. “You’ve only just been diagnosed?” asks his Dad. John nods, “cancer. Riddled with it.” “I’m so sorry Sparrow,” says the old man. “Are you?” John snaps angrily. “Yes. Yes, I wish we could have had more time together,” replies his father. Now John is vehemently shaking his head, “that was never going to happen.” The old man opens his mouth, but stays the words that he was on the verge of speaking. He sees the truth of it now. His son did not come here to reconcile himself to his father. His son does not see the point to that now, and there is nothing the old man can do to change his mind. There was nothing he could ever do. That was all down to John, and one day, John stopped listening to his father. He took sides when there were no sides to take, there was only John. There was only ever John, but the boy didn’t see it that way and he decided not to see his Dad again. John decided to punish his father. After all this time, the old man wonders what John can be punishing him for now. He cannot see the point in any further punishment. There has been too much hurt already. But then he sees it. He sees what John sees, and can only wish that this were not the case. There is nothing he can say to make it right. Nothing to be said after all this time. The old man was right. He was right all along. But for the old man, it was never about being right and this John sees too. It just was. The old man stood up for his values and he stood by what was right. He stood up for John, his son, his little boy. Yet the little boy defied him. John didn’t see what was right. He did not value that and he did not value himself. He believed in people instead. He believed his mother was right, come what may. He placed a complete and misguided loyalty into a single human being, and it trapped him in a life that was a pale shadow of the one that he was meant to lead. John painted himself into a corner and blinded himself to the truth of it with his anger, then he drowned himself in an avalanche of hurt and pain. All he could see was conflict. He stubbornly needed to be right, even though he knew he was wrong right from the very start. The pain of it told him that much. All these years have been pointless waste. There was no need for any of it. No one wanted this for him. No one. But he could not let go. Even now, he convinces himself that this is the case. That he couldn’t let go, not that he chose to hold on to something that twisted him out of shape and hurt him each and every day. That in the end he would rather hold onto a falsehood and the pain it brought with it, than to his own father’s hand. John stands up, shaking with all those emotions he took with him that fateful day all those years ago when he walked away from this man. “Sparrow...” the old man’s voice is strong, powerful and just the same as it was back then. John is the petulant little boy. Brim full of confusing emotions and thoughts. Too proud to accept his father. Too stubborn to back down. They play out the same sad scene and there is nothing the old man can do to change a thing. “...please don’t,” he says in a voice diminished by the years and the constant pain of separation from the one thing he loved most in the world. The one thing he thought he’d lost forever. He watches his little Sparrow walk towards the door of the room, walking out of his life yet again. John does not turn back. He does not see the stricken look on the face of the old man, he fails to see the look of utter and complete love of a father for his son. John does not see his father take a final stuttering breath. The old man is dead before John has left the room.


“C’mon!” Landon said with that cheeky smile of his. “You gotta try this!” He continued as he presented a tiny roach, lit and ashy on one end and a rolled up piece of cardboard ripped from a cigarette pack on the other. “No thanks, man!” Daniel protested as he pushed Landon’s offering away. “More for me!” exclaimed Landon and he took another toke. There was something picturesque about Landon, every time he pursed his lips just so to inhale from such a tiny roach. Standing, thin and lanky at around 6’4”, blond hair - stark blue eyes; the kind of blue like the sheets of ice when huge bodies of water would freeze over in the winter. Sheets of ice with depth beyond any unit of measurement. He had the kind of gaze that you could lose yourself in, if ever he spoke passionately about anything to you. The way he gently cradled between his thumb and his index finger the burning piece of rolled paper to his pursed lips like some giant gently kissing his index finger and thumb with each inhale. Daniel, quite the opposite, brown hair brown eyes, fair skin. He stood somewhat shorter than Landon at 5’11”. “Not too tall and not too short”, he would often think. “Just the way the ladies like!” he would often say to reassure himself. He pulled his hand back from pushing Landon’s offering away and quickly tucked them under his arms as he faced his childhood friend in the winter’s cold. Together, they stood on this little hill, in a small park that was nestled between both their homes in suburban, Thornhill, Ontario. Many folks have visited and have heard of Toronto, Ontario with its stunning skyline and bustling city life. Not as many know its northern neighbor, Thornhill, just about a 45 minute drive north of the city. It has its bustling moments, too. Whether that is a good thing or not, that is for each person to decide. “Life is what you make of it,” Landon started. He could see that look in Daniel’s eyes. The times when the brown in Daniel’s eyes would turn itself to a dark kind of dark-gray. For it was in moments like these Landon could always tell that trouble was on Daniel’s mind. “You gotta forget her, man... she isn’t worth your heartache...” Landon continued as he put out his roach and tossed it to the ground, he kept walking ahead of Daniel. Daniel looked as though he was just about to speak, but instead he let out a slow sigh. Only a few steps behind Landon, Daniel ruffled his jacket’s breast pockets until he found his cigarette pack, the pack from which the filter of the joint was ripped from and opened it. It was his last cigarette, standing head first with its tail in the air. He was down to his “lucky” cigarette, the last of the pack. He drew his filter tipped friend to his lips and lit it. It was as if Landon’s super-sonic hearing could hear the lighter being flicked on; just as Daniel was about to inhale Landon snatched the cigarette from Daniel’s lips, threw it to the ground and squashed into the dirt with his boots. “So, not cool!” Daniel exclaimed. He was used to Landon’s antics by now, he couldn’t even say he was surprised that Landon did what he did. He had tried to wait until Landon was walking far enough ahead, even before lighting the damn thing; and to think he could even get a single inhale of that smoke into his lungs. “You gotta do what moves you, man” Landon said with his soulful gaze. “This, my friend ... “ Landon paused, “isn’t it”. “I guess you are right ...” Daniel sighed. It was his LAST cigarette. Now all he could think about was buying his next pack. “Do what moves, ya, brother” Landon said as he swung his arm around Daniel’s shoulder. They continued to walk away from the park and in the direction of Landon’s basement apartment, the next street over. For Landon, any action or movement, bustling or not was great news. “It means that you are alive!” he would say often to those within earshot. Daniel had quite the different interpretation of life. Each movement had to be purposeful and deliberate. He didn’t believe in fate or coincidences. He believed that each person reaped exactly what they sowed and that life was always fair - if you don’t have it, it means that you never earned it and that was the cold hard truth. Life was just that cut and dry, no “ifs”, “ands” or “buts”, what is, is and there was nothing more to it. As they approached the entrance to Landon’s basement apartment, Landon searched for his keys. He could tell that something was on Daniel’s mind. “A penny for your thoughts?” he asked. “Who says that anymore?” Daniel barked back following Landon into his apartment. “Fine, what’s on your mind?” Landon asked. Daniel let out another huge sigh. “Fine,” Landon began. “You won’t talk ... let the music talk for you!” Landon said walking past these huge speakers he had on stands and sub woofers he had tucked just underneath mixing boards and sound decks. His whole basement apartment was this elaborate set up machines and microphones and wires upon wires all bundled and crossed, but each one still connected with a purpose. Landon went to the back of the room where his fancy sound mixing equipment was and beside it was a small bar fridge. He popped it opened and took out a beer and tossed it to Daniel. Landon took a beer for himself and turned on his computer and waited for it to load. He could see the pain Daniel’s eyes. He raised his beer, “to love” he bellowed doing his best impression of a clumsy drunk trying to squeeze a smile out of Daniel. Daniel raised his glass. “To finding the perfect woman ... one day!” Landon exclaimed. Daniel raised his glass as he caught his reflection in Landon’s full-length mirror. Maybe... just maybe he thought to himself, one day he could find a version of himself that needn’t so much reassuring. “To the perfect woman,” he echoed listlessly. Something just wasn’t sitting right. Silence filled the room as the two boys pounded back their beers. Landon clicking at the keys on his keyboard and occasionally fumbling with the mixing deck beside it. Daniel sat there in the middle of Landon’s studio on a massive beanbag just staring at his reflection. He started to wonder why it was so hard for him to find happiness the way Landon expressed it. Not that there was any competition between the two boys to find happiness. Daniel just wondered why it was so hard for him. Suddenly, with the music on, Daniel shifted his gaze from the reflection of himself over to a now shirtless Landon who has worked up a sweat dancing behind his sound mixing equipment and a huge computer with the screen on and a bunch of mixing software opened. Landon, with only his toque and boxer shorts on, broke the silence by reaching behind and grabbing two more beers, and tossed another one to Daniel, “drink up!” he said as held his headphones to the side of his head, over one ear the way that some DJs do in night clubs that you see on movies and in TV. The music seemed to have brought Daniel into a trance of some kind, he sat there motionless with his beer to his lips, not drinking but staring at Landon in his zone. “You really have to try this, one day” Landon spoke hoping to cut the silence and the sheer focus of Daniel’s gaze. “Making custom mastering chains is one of the best hobbies you could ever have, man!” Landon began again. “Dude, you know how you are a writer?” he asked. Daniel nodded. “Well this is a thousand times better than anything you can write, just come here” he said motioning his head to beckon Daniel. Daniel reluctantly got up from the massive beanbag, which he had been accustomed to and dragged his feet over to where Landon was standing. “Imagine this, brother” Landon said as he stood behind Daniel, lifting his arm as if he was painting a sunset horizon so Daniel could see. “Imagine all the feelings that words can’t explain coming out in rhythm and rhyme that just moves you.” Landon paused to lean his face over Daniel’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, “it breathes life into you, man!” Landon took Daniel by the shoulders and pointed him to the screen, directly in front of the switchboard of sound equipment. “It’s real easy, just play around with these bottons here,” he said motioning his curser over the computer’s animated sound deck. It could have been the beers, it could have been the feelings that were eating away inside, Daniel finally decided to let it all go as he took the mouse from Landon’s hand he began to drag and click as if he knew what it was that he was doing. He pretended for once that life needn’t to be so calculated and so formulaic. For the first time he moved without purpose and his head began to bop to this unfamiliar rhythm he began creating. “What are these here?” Daniel asked staring ahead into the screen with Landon still standing closely behind him. So close, he could feel Landon’s breath on his neck as Landon replied, “These are a series of effects and plug-ins used in digital audio workstations to produce music that allow you to mix your track within the same program without having to go to a studio. For example ...” Landon then snatched the mouse from Daniel and hovered it over to the other buttons on in a different window. A beat of a different sound began to play. “Basically, it’s pre-mastering before you go into a studio and lay things down on an analog mixing deck...” Landon explained. “So you’re making beats?” Daniel asked, not knowing if it was a dumb question or not. “Yeah, exactly” Landon began to explain, “but also taking projects from scratch and equalizing and mixing them correctly so they’re ready to go in a proper studio...” With Daniel still between him and the sound equipment and keyboard, Landon continued to slide the mouse to and from pushing various coloured buttons as well as using his middle and index fingers dragging sound switches up and down on the real life mixing board in front of them both. Daniel stood there and was for a moment lost, it could have been the beers, or it could have been the beats, but something held his gaze as he watched Landon hand dance over the switches of the sound deck. Landon’s fingers and hands just almost fluttering as he pushed some buttons going up and others going down, with a gentle tap to keep time in between. It was as if the dance that Landon’s hands did on this machine was just radiating these trance-like vibrations. Something that Daniel knew of but never felt before. Daniel turned back and grabbed Landon’s shoulder, almost surprising Landon only to smile and say, “I need another beer, man!” as he bee-lined to the bar fridge for another beer. This time he took one for himself and he gave one to Landon. Landon took the beer and smiled. They cracked their beers and made a toast, “to finding the perfect love!” Landon bellowed. Daniel raised his beer with an expression he could not quite squeeze into words, “the perfect love...” he echoed, unenthusiastically. Then Daniel, feeling the heat of the music and dancing took off his shirt and slid right between the sound deck and Landon again, only to resume what they were doing before. Soon the two boys were making music and dancing closely together, Landon moving the mouse on the computer screen to make the different beats and sounds pop as Daniel slid the buttons on the sound deck back and forth to learn of each different echo and rhythm as it sped up and slowed down. The music continued and so did Landon, finally breaking the speaking silence, “So really it’s like your own custom touch,” Landon pointed out trying to speak over the loudness of the rhythm and beats that was being created. “... and you add to the piece what you consider to be the final version you want to have before it’s finally out of your hands!” “Oh?” Daniel commented, trying to do two things at once. Landon, feeling that he finally got Daniel’s mind off of whatever love trouble had befuddled him before, continued proudly, “I’ve been working on a new EP actually that’s mainly melodic house / acid techno actually...” Daniel still lost in his own stare, just gazing at the sound board and bewildered at the music it produced. Although intrigued, Daniel for once was neither here nor there. Daniel, although feeling the rhythm the music around him was just lost. For the first time, he started to feel the impulse in his body and how it began to move him. The more he moved and flowed with the bottons and switches in front of him without thought, the more the music spoke what was in his mind and his heart, all the things that the words of a writer could never say, the music seemed to have the courage to not just say, but shout. “I could send it your way... It uses this mastering chain as well.” Landon offered. “Send what?” Daniel turned his head to the side and barked over the music that was being created, his thoughts were jumbled and mixed up again. Landon, sensing that his friend had gone far enough into his state of lost love, grabbed Daniel by the shoulders and turned him around. Now the two boys stood facing one another shirtless with the chains that were just mastered on this rhythmic repeat just pumping what seemed to be this endless flow of rhythm and adrenaline. Landon grabbed Daniel’s arms on either side as if he was ready to shake him and passionately spoke, “Whoever this girl is, whoever broke your heart and did this to you... man! You gotta rise above it! Use the rhythm this music is making and dance away from it. You are stronger than that, you deserve better than that! Snap out of it!” Landon shouted over the sounds of the bass and treble being blasted from the speakers and subwoofers. Soon the beats began to double in their time and the speed of which the music flowed began to hurry and hasten; quicker and quicker like the beats created were racing to finish the song. Daniel, still frozen between Landon’s grasp, turned away. He just couldn’t bare to get lost in Landon’s eyes again, not here, not now. Not with this sped-up electronic pounding of unfamiliar sounds, just pulsating not only from the speakers and subwoofers but from inside his chest. “SNAP OUT OF IT!” Landon yelled over the rhythmic pounding of their newest creation, shaking Daniel. At that moment, just as the music playing reached it’s peak; Daniel broke free from Landon’s grasp on either side. “It’s not that easy man! It’s not what you think!” Daniel exclaimed. The music stopped. “Of course, it’s NOT what I think, Daniel... I don’t THINK the way you do! Obsessing and calculating over every single, minute detail, every thought and rationing every move. I just live, Daniel. That is what YOU need to learn to do!” Landon argued, trying to bring some sense into Daniel. “Where is the Daniel I used to know?” Landon asked. “What happened to the ‘happy-go-lucky’ Daniel who lived? You used to be so happy man, what happened?” There was a long pause and awkward silence as the two boys now stood face to face behind the mixing deck and in front of the bar fridge. Daniel turned to the fridge to open it, hoping to find another beer to break the tension and silence all at once. He crouched down and opened the fridge door to an empty fridge, and he looked up and Landon who resumed mixing and playing music, starting another piece. Landon smiled and looked over, “it’s your turn to get more beer, bruh...” his voice trailed off. Daniel paused and thought for a moment and shook his head, he quickly stood up and dragged his feet to stand between the mixing deck and Landon again leaning over to press new buttons and move some new swtiches. The music started to play again, this time a beat different from the last, with feelings emerging that was different from before. With Daniel between where he was standing and the mixing board, Landon hovered his head over Daniel’s shoulder, he whispered and asked, “so, tell me... Daniel, who do I need to hunt down? Who broke your heart? Tell me ...” For Landon, any answer would have pleased him. It would have been one word closer to the truth to what was hurting his friend. Daniel, who at that moment, caught his reflection in another mirror Landon had hanging on the wall across the studio had began to wonder. As Daniel stood there shirtless, next Landon, he thought if each movement leading to this very second in time was truly purposeful and deliberate, and if there really was no such thing as fate or coincidences ... maybe now is the time to say what the music couldn’t. “C’mon, man...” Landon leaned in and ask again, at the same time pumping out a rhythm to a different beat. “Whose on your mind? Tell me ...”. The music once again hastened, this time it made Daniel’s heart race as he finally answered, “it’s you.”


Mr. Roger Auclair heard nothing but the sound of his wheelchair for months, or maybe it was years. He was a lonely man; it was his own choice. It was a long time ago when he decided to move by the sea. It was a dream he and his wife, now long gone, had. A youth-filled dream that was fulfilled unfortunately too late for her to enjoy. He wished he did things differently, but that's human fate for most of us. Alone in his mansion, he came and went. He turned on and off the lights and stood by the window to watch the mysterious sea every morning and night. Occasionally someone would pass by, but usually, there would be seagulls and stray dogs. Autumn was a special season, windy and quiet unlike any other. You could compare it to winter, but Autumn had something special. It was the wind, the humidity, maybe the excess of rain. There was one special night, the darkest of all. On that night he felt the call; an invisible invitation coming from upstairs. It happened during one of those times he would stare at his old photographs: Remembering his wife in her wedding dress, the birth of his first child, that trip to Florida. Suddenly something woke him from his thoughts, it was one single sound. Droning, he thought he had never heard something like it before. It was as if the abyss had a voice and the nothingness had melody. He tried to clear his ears and shook his head. As the sound continued and his curiosity grew, he steeled himself. feeling a compulsion driving him, he threw himself to the ground out from his chair. He didn't mind, he didn't feel a thing despite his age and condition. Because like half of his body, as well as half of his soul, he was already numb. He helped himself up the stairs with his hands, elbows, and arms. He dragged himself with a strength he didn't know he even possessed to reach that second floor. With every grunt, every step, he pulled himself forward. Visions of times long ago in the army flashed before his eyes. He saw himself crawling under barbed wire through mud and blood. Explosions from mortars and grenades, and the deaf ringing from the shockwave in his head... and there it was... The sound! Shell shock is what they called it, an overwhelming shot to the nervous system. Leaving a man blank, lost, and trembling not knowing why on a conscious level. He always found it difficult to come back, mainly because he didn't want to come back at all. After all the blankness, for a moment at least, would take him away from the destruction around him. Something surely never easy to forget; the bloodbath he never asked for. Body to ground, Roger kept dragging himself up the spiral staircase. The void's emptiness continued ever louder. When he arrived at the top, sweating and shaking. He looked to one side and then the other of the hall. Following the strange noise, he reached the entrance of the old bedroom. The door was half ajar and he could see a strange violet sparkling light emitting from the room. The old man opened the door and he couldn't believe what he was seeing... A hole in the wall. A perfect black hole, swirling and spitting shadows all over the scene. There was a ghostly light that shone and fainted in front of him. Light and darkness, the two opposites dancing together. The loud continuous noise kept beckoning him like a siren's song. Roger thought to himself. ''Was this a portal going to another dimension? Should I call someone to investigate?''. He was overwhelmed by confusion. Mouth agape, he touched his chin then scratched his head. He thought it was a dream. Could it be a dream? He believed he was out of his mind. He wondered if he had a heart attack and this was his call to finally go. It was after all... The light at the end of the tunnel everyone speaks about! Although less welcoming than he would have envisioned he could feel himself being seduced by its eerie and alluring glow. He laid there on the floor staring. Time seemed irrelevant or even non-existent. Roger tried to keep a cautionary distance, but eventually, the attraction was impossible to bear any longer. As his obsession to investigate grew, he could hold it any longer. The old man touched the hole with the tip of his index finger. Just like that, it was as if Roger Auclair vanished and the hole closed. The violet light, the deafening sound, and the lonely man who once upon some seconds lived in the mansion were all gone. It has been a long while since Roger chose the "quietest house". The house with the beach view, where all there was to be heard was the squeaky noise of his wheelchair and the sound of the waves rolling. The waves, coming and going... giving and taking, forever and ever. It was on that darkest night when Roger and the sea became one. You see... the portal... that fantastic glowing hole... transported him to the bottom of the sea. He didn't know where he was and he didn't care much. There he was floating in this abstract space of oblivion... Where there is no air, no view, no sound, no color, only idleness, only silence, and only the void. He tried one time to scream into the guts of the ocean. While the coldness wrapped his bones, only one noiseless gasp escaped him. His lungs filled with water, his heart dry of hope, his eyes opened but he saw nothing. It was in that moment Roger ceased. His body drifted weightlessly in the cold wet darkness. Forevermore in his watery tomb bearing witness to the void he had felt all those long years without his wife, because Roger was an old lonely man... surrendering himself long ago to the inevitable. It was the darkest house, it was the deepest sea... where he locked himself and threw away the key.


This is a short story written written rather quickly based upon a challenge friend gave me, I'd be interested to see what you make of it. It's not particularly good, but oh well. Regret? Maybe. The consequences were expected but were not planned for, nor were they properly thought through. After all when actions are spontaneous the long-term effects are often overlooked in favour of the short term gain. What were the short term gains? Experience, mostly. Not as in experience in performing such acts but emotional experience, the ability to extend the extent to which one can truly be empathetic towards another person. You see many people say they have felt all alone in the world, that they have felt isolated from the rest of humanity, but in truth their claims are lies. For many of them the feeling of loneliness was an exaggeration of their feelings. There would most likely be someone there for them be them parents, partners friends or mere acquaintances. In order to feel truly lonely all human relations, all ties to the world must be removed. In order to remove friends I simply stopped seeing them. I skipped school, didn’t attend their parties until they all forgot about me. Children are like that. To remove my parents something more drastic had to be done. My parents couldn’t be made to forget my existence and I could not run away since I would not be able to survive. In order to achieve a higher degree of understanding I had to remove my parents without changed my own situation. Of course, you know how I did this so there’s no point retelling my tale is there? But afterwards I truly felt lonely. I had no one to help me, no one to rely on or look up to. There was just me and the absence of everyone else. I was like that until you found me, I can’t quite say how long that is, but now I can say that I have felt true loneliness and can practice a higher degree of legitimate empathy with others. Of course, this is all just a theory. In practice, who knows, perhaps it backfired. Regardless I cannot say I regret what I did, but nor can I say that I remember it fondly. A sad memory, perhaps? A story to tell to others? Only time will tell.


Lin- she had always seemed ordinary. People who used to look at her would not find anything special about her. At first glance, she was your regular woman in her twenties, doing some job or the other and living a seemingly content life. But that was actually not it. She was a secret agent, working undercover as a book editor. What others did not know was that while she worked on her stories, she simultaneously would be encoding messages. What people didn’t realize was that she was actually gathering and sorting data under the pretext of working on a rookie author’s text. No, nobody ever knew that she was part of something much, much bigger than herself or the streets or the city or the country... or even the globe. She was a worker at the Galactic Organization for Realizing Mythology- GORM for short. That was the most wonderful place one could ever fathom about, because all myths and traditions from across planets in the galaxy came true there. She was on the Chinese Department on Dimension Earth, and was pretty happy to be working there- except for one small complaint last Wednesday. “Dexter!” she yelled yet again into the dark silence surrounded by stars which did not twinkle the way they did on earth. Tao turned around in her seat. “Let me see,” she observed. “He did something again.” “ Of course he had to! You won’t even believe what his brain cooked up this time!” Lin shrieked shrilly. Tao removed her glasses and stared straight at Lin. “Cut him some slack, you iceberg,” she repeated herself. “He’s the only American in this whole department of Chinese people. Imagine the amount of hard work he must have put in to get here! He must have had good reasons for doing whatever he did.” “But Tao-!” Lin began, but her colleague cut her short. “I’ve heard. He is going for the red threads of fate this year for the annual project, isn’t he?” Lin nodded, relieved to know her friend was well-informed for at least one time. Tao shrugged. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. It’s a pretty interesting topic. I can’t help it if you are so averse to love, honey,” she spoke. Lin looked thunderstruck. “But he wants us to try and follow our own threads to see where they lead! That’s the dumbest idea I ever came across. Your love comes at its own time.” she exploded. Tao shrugged again. “All I know is that we are working at a place which experiments with mythology as creatures know it, and also the fact that Dexter is a genius. He’s been designing that machine to view red threads since three years, and it’s finally nearing completion! How would you feel if something you’ve been toiling on might finally see daylight?” Lin turned away, leaving the question unanswered. She heaved around her paperwork and checked the time. It was nearly time to return to earth to play her role as ‘the boring editor’. She started packing her stuff to head to the elevators. What she could not tell Tao was that she had a deep-seated secret. It was entrenched so much that she could not pluck the courage to lug it out and tell the world. It was pure and simple- contrary to popular belief at the GORM, she did not despise Dexter. In fact, she admired him like a mad aficionado. She strongly believed that her own red thread was attached to his ankle, and both of them were meant to be together. But ever since Dexter started developing his tech, doubts had been sown into her mind. Were both of them really meant to be together? Were their cords ever connected? Could her fantasies ever come true? And that is why she never wanted him to succeed. She was afraid that once Dexter finished his work, someone else might be the one for him and she would be left standing alone, or accompanied by someone she had absolutely despised until then. But who would understand? She ceased her packing and stood up blindly. For some sudden reason, tears had started prickling at the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away quickly with her sleeve before Tao noticed and hurried away to the elevators leading back to earth. And that’s when she ran into a solid wall. “Oh, I’m so sorry... Lin! Just the person I wanted to see!” She looked up in shock. She had just plummeted ungraciously into Dexter. Dexter straightened up, his wavy brown hair bobbing slightly over his perfectly shaped eyebrows and clear hazel eyes. “Yeah?” she asked in a neutral fashion. That was the mode she ever assumed around him. He smiled. “You know about our project topic this year, right? I needed a bit of help with the instrument I’m working on. I figured you’d be the best person to ask help from,” he said hopefully. “Okay,” she said nonchalantly and followed him back into the department. He inhaled deeply as soon as he flicked on the lights which illuminated a small pair of framed glasses. They were grandly placed on a stand surrounded by contraptions of several kinds- he had really been working hard. Pride swelled up in Lin’s chest on watching all his works. That’s my man, she thought. “I need you to help me finish this invention,” Dexter said. “You’ll be given due credit for your part, don’t worry about that.” Lin was shocked beyond words. He was asking for the impossible. How could she ever? However neat and impressive the invention was, all she wanted to do to it was smash it or sabotage it in some way. Wait. Maybe... she actually could do that... and buy herself more time. She slowly nodded and began to study the glasses. They were in optimum condition. The lenses were the simple and plain, but made from the toughest transparent material in the galaxy. Ouch. That must have cost a lot. She decided to ignore the numbers running in her head and delved further. The frames had the main control panel, so they were the real deal. She suddenly swooped down to examine a button named ‘VIEW’. Was that sparking she saw there? “What’s this one for?” she asked, pointing at it eagerly. He leant behind a stack of books he was resetting. “Oh, that? It’s for a general view of all red threads in the world. It can be customized to a specific person’s thread’s view too.” Bingo, she thought. That was one spark she had to encourage. The wiring had grown old due to the amount of time it had spent inside the machine. This must have been the first function Dexter must have installed since the device’s creation. A new set of anti-frictional wiring would finish the machine, but that wasn’t what she was going to do. No. She was going to increase the amount of friction and additionally fry the internal system a little so that the glasses would break down after a couple of minutes of use. The blame would all come down to usage of outdated tools and overlooking of system safety, and the project would be scrapped. “I need access to the mainframe of this program,” she called out. He nodded. “I’m coming over,” he replied and rushed to her. She could catch a whiff of his cologne which she loved so much. He hit a few keys on his computer and looked at her. “There,” he said. “You can edit the program now.” The brightness and boyishness in his voice caught Lin off-guard. He was so enthusiastic about this small set of glasses lying in front of her. She stared at them. She was about to blow up three years of effort into smoke. And he had trusted her to strengthen it instead. How low could she get? A wave of epiphany washed over her. How it came about, she could not explain; maybe it must have been a sudden surge of guilt. But all that occupied her conscience at the moment was- she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t betray his trust and faith in her for her selfish desires. She took a deep breath. “Let’s fix you properly, buddy,” she whispered softly to the glasses and rolled up her sleeves. Within an hour, the work was done, and both of them had bidden goodbye to each other, promising each other good luck for the presentation the next working day. Eventually, the next working hours for the GORM did arrive, and Lin was nervous. The presentation involved someone finding their soul mate using the glasses. She wanted the invention to work, because she wanted Dexter to be appreciated. How happy he would be if it were to be accepted and put into mass production for the galactic public. And if he was happy, she would be too. A volunteer was chosen, the glasses were put on and the person immediately cried out, “There’s this... red string around my ankle!” And he frantically started chasing it. People jumped and skipped out of the way as he made his way through crowds and out into the streets. He finally jerked his head up when he sensed an end coming. “Well... I married the right girl, then,” he murmured shyly as he saw his wife’s ankle connected at the other end. The following throngs from the GORM burst into applause. Lin shed tears of joy. It had worked. Later on, the whole department was appreciated and congratulated- the glasses were going into immediate mass production. Lin could never forget the look on Dexter’s face as he heard the news. **** Four months later... “It’s arrived! The package has come!” Tao frantically pushed her bangs away from her face as she lifted Lin’s package. There it was- sitting in a shiny case, the glasses looked more beautiful than ever before. The design reforms had really changed the influence and sales of the venture. Lin entered running from the left passage. “Lemme try them on!” she squealed and grabbed the glasses. Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest. Who was going to be her soul mate? Was he even from this galaxy, or would she have to pay the heavy inter-galactic travel expenses? She jammed them onto her eyes and her fingers flickered to the all-too-familiar ‘VIEW’ function. She pressed a few more buttons to show only her string. An instant measure sprang up at the edge of the lens: 840 meters. “Why is it so short?” she muttered in frustration. But that could only mean one thing- her soul mate was very near. She broke into a run, completely going against office protocol. She nearly cried out when her eyes travelled to the ankle of the person at the other end of her red thread. Dexter.


“Can you see the moon?” she whispered softly, her warm breath making tiny clouds in the cold air. “Yes.” The wind was howling, shaking the trees so violently he wondered if one would eventually fall over. “Why can’t I see the moon?” He looked up, unable to look her in her eyes. Not that it would have made a difference. “When it is time you will see it.” He slowly looked down at her again. Her dress was almost completely red now. He felt them pressing behind his eyes, but he kept them back. *There is still time, you can’t give in yet.*  “Can you see the moon?” Her voice was surprisingly calm, and he almost wondered if she even was aware. “Yes.” He looked up towards the sky. “I see the moon.” “I like the moon.” He could see the corners of her mouth twitch, as if it wanted to move but lacked the strength. “I like the moon too” he answered as his vision clouded up. *Not yet.* “Your mother also likes the moon.” He stroked her head softly like he always used to do when she was younger. Her skin was soft and pale, it almost shone in the moonlight. “Is mom at the moon?” “Yes.” He looked into her deep blue eyes, the eyes she had gotten from her mother. He still remembered the first time he met her; she had looked so lovely in the moonlight. He also remembered how the moonlight embraced her he lost her.  “Can you see the moon?” Her voice was faint now. “Yes.” He reassured her, while softly caressing her face. “I can’t see the moon.” He could not tell if she was worried or not. Her face looked more and more expressionless for every minute that passed by. “You will see it soon.” It was considerably more difficult to hold them back now. *Just a little longer.* He knew he could not give in yet. He had to stay strong, for her.  The air had gotten colder. He did not know for how long they had been there. The wind was blowing even more violently than before, yet he did not pay it any mind. He looked at her pale skin. It had gotten paler. “I see it! I see the moon!” she exclaimed suddenly, though so faintly he almost did not hear it. She lifted her arm slowly, using all the strength she had left as if she was reaching for someone important. He grabbed her little hand, firmly. This little hand he had held so many times before felt so cold in his grasp tonight. He knew it was time. “Go”, he said, trying his best to not let his voice crack, “your mother is waiting for you.” “Dad?” she whispered so weakly it was almost inaudible. “Do you see the moon?”  The wind had stopped howling, the only sound left was his own breath. As he looked up at the cloudy night sky, he finally let them stream down his cheeks. “No” he whispered to himself, as the rain started to fall.


Cigarettes are a little deal. I trade a single bit of nicotine for a little bit of life. And I would like to think that it isn’t such a bad deal if done in moderation. But today, I know that I feel generous about my side of the bargain. I’ll trade it all for some nicotine, and I want a cigarette and some water, so I walk to the Exxon near the Red Roof Inn. It’s raining, and walking along the suburban landscape, on overgrown grass, and across the crumbling streets of Michigan feels forlorn into itself. The sidewalk is for walking, but it isn’t meant for walking either. No one walks here. I walk into the gas station, and the older eastern European man stops mopping and goes behind the counter. Why does he need to sit behind the counter at all? You could keep mopping I think to myself. I grab water, and then at the counter, I ask for an American spirit blue. The gas station is ultra-compact, and each inch on the wall is packed with some convenience good. Shampoos, ramen, everything you could need. Somehow gas stations with less space fit even more than a sprawling store. The man hands me the packet of cigarettes. “Blue and blue, heh,” pointing out the matching lighter I picked. I didn’t mean to. I am faced with two PoS and wonder what that’s always the case at these kinds of places. He points to the older-looking PoS, and I swipe for the cigarettes. I want to smoke; I need to smoke right now. Anything to “calm my nerves,” as they say in the books I’ve read. I don’t even know if that’s how it works for me, I’m kind of a novice and poseur smoker. I thank the man and walk outside. It’s still raining, and I light the stick and walk back to the red roof inn. Something about holding the stick makes you feel inherently cool, even when you feel depressed. I am at one moment thinking about how my family would be shocked if I killed myself, especially after the family wedding two weekends ago, where I seemed so happy, and on the other hand, thinking how I must look cool when I exhale. I try to think more about the cigarette than the other thoughts and how I can placate that want of a big death with this little death. If there’s cancer, it will just be the will of that first, but until then, I smoke, inhale, and take each little death one breath at a time. Does this calm my thoughts? I don’t know. I think of Miyazaki, and how he said this cigarette tastes like it has extra arsenic. How can a man who makes happy media be so sad? Can I taste that or does the ashen taste of tobacco taste like how it does? And I mean, I fucking hate the taste of American spirit blues. I don’t know why I smoke them when I can, maybe it’s because of what some of my friends do, and it’s what I know. I don’t know. The taste is starting to be much, and I put it out early. I mean, I’m a novice smoker, and It’s a whole pack; smoking it all would be heroic. I walk back to my room. There’s something so sad about it. I am alone in this sad room, one that feels like any other roadside motel I have stayed at. There are all the things you expect from a hotel, a fridge, a mediocre shower, and a microwave. It feels like everywhere I’ve stayed before in one room, yet it feels like nowhere at all. I push my key into the door, and I step inside. Is this a cage? Do you think this is a trap? Or am I tucked into the netherworld, a pocket space different from any other? When I cross the threshold, I go to a place away from the world I know. I have the blinds closed, and I cannot see outside. I feel tucked away into myself, unto the world, and the cold air of the hotel is of little comfort. I am in a place I have never been before, yet I have been before in so many different times. On road trips with my parents, alone in another state, together with strangers on a journey. But in this state, in this room, I am somehow more alone and more gone from the world than I have ever been. I am tucked into this pocket universe and might as well be the only one alive once I step across the door. I have my little backpack with me. The way it’s packed, it could be a business trip if I knew it was not. Is this how every man feels when he’s not welcome home anymore? I want to die a little death again, but I pause instead. What would she think, or hell, is she even thinking of me at all? I want to think so, but I know that maybe I am the one flattering myself. Like the little deaths I’m craving right now, our relationship, too, died many little deaths along the way. And maybe I wasn’t paying attention when the final breath was taken, and I have just been playing corpse instead. And now I’m here, wishing for my little death to happen to me much faster. I decide to go for another smoke. It’s not like she or I would care, for that matter. I open the door, and it’s still raining. Is it the same world I left, or maybe this pocket universe opened to another one, just like the one I knew. Maybe one where things are okay, and I don’t need these little deaths. I sit on the bench near my door and light another cigarette. The cigarette still tastes all the same in the rain.


Sir George knelt down alongside the hedgerow. His hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, pressing it down to raise the tip preventing it from digging into the morning dew covered ground. The first sliver of the sun started to emerge from the horizon. His companion, Apprentice Yorri, squatted next to him. “Sir?” Yorri said softly. “Yes Yorri?” “Are you sure about this?” “Not in the slightest,” the knight said, looking at his squire with a grin. The look did not reassure Yorri, who’s brow started to dampen with perspiration. George reached into the hedgerow and removed leaves and carefully broke branches, slowly making a small hole to look through. He did his best to create a cone shape to it, giving him the largest field of view, with the smallest possible opening on the other side. The knight moved himself closer to the view hole and pressed his face against the foliage. Through the opening he had a clear view to the field beyond. A knot tied in his guts as he saw confirmation of the scout’s initial reports. About fifty yards away, as best George could estimate, stood a row of brown tents, embers lightly glowed in fire pits, horses and carts stood around the perimeter, and armed soldiers walked about. George leaned back, Yorri’s furrowed brow confirmed to George that the color left his face. Then Yorri’s curiosity pulled him to look through the opening as well. He didn’t look for as long as the knight before leaning back with a similar reaction as his master. “H-how many do you think?” Yorri asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Hard to say,” George replied, he said the words as flatly as he could to mask his own trepidation. “Guess,” Yorri said, “they’ll want that at least back at camp.” George looked at Yorri, his brow raised, a flash of his usual more lighthearted self visiting for a moment. “What? I’m right,” Yorri said, his voice getting a little louder before he realized it. He shrunk into his shoulders for a moment as they both held their breaths fearing the call of a sentry alerting the not far off war camp to their presence. None came. “I know you are,” George said softly, “so, maybe eight thousand, if I’m being a pessimist.” “And if you were being an optimist?” Yorri asked, hoping for some kind of comfort. “Seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine if we manage to capture a sentry to bring back with us.” Yorri contemplated knocking out the knight, dragging him to the enemy’s camp, and bartering for his own passage away from the coming battle. Though the impulse passed quickly. “So I take it you have a plan for capturing this sentry?” Yorri asked. “Why would I? We haven’t found one yet.” The squire stiffened his features at the reply, though knew arguing wouldn’t change it. They knelt within shouting distance of an enemy army and until a few moments ago didn’t have any concrete information about it. As if on cue from the other side of the hedgerow the pair heard the sound of armor articulating over itself that coincided with the movement of someone walking. The pair hiding looked at each other, George smirked, and Yorri rolled his eyes. The approaching soul moved slowly, with mostly regular steps. George assumed that the nearing soldier kept his focus more on the uneven ground of the field as he walked. With a heavy and silent breath George leaned again toward the small opening he made in the hedgerow. He could just make out the patrolling sentry at the edge of his field of vision. The carefully moving and well equipped soldier slowly neared their position. The knight started to do the mental calculations, both Yorri and him were lightly armed to ease their movement and make less sound. The sentry had the advantage there. They outnumbered him. Though Yorri knew the basics, up until this point had never fought outside of sparring. Without knowing more about how this soldier fought he couldn’t make an estimation of how a fight with him would fare. At the moment their best advantage remained in stealth and surprise to take their foe. He leaned back on his heels from the viewing spot. Yorri’s expression remained mostly the same, though his eyes looked at George for some reassurance. George carefully shifted closer to the younger man. He wrapped an arm around his shoulder pulling him closer to barely whisper into his ear. “It’s just one, he’s got some armor but that’s no worry. We want him alive so he’s helping us there.” “The p-plan,” Yorri barely managed to press past his lips. “When the-” he started, though cut himself off as he heard the sentry on the other side of the hedge cough loudly then spit. Their prey approached quickly, and would be past them before too long. George needed to think faster. “-sentry passes by the opening, reach out, grab him, belt’s good, ankle’s best.” Yorri’s face lost what little color remained. “Pull hard, let me do the rest.” George released his arm from around Yorri’s shoulder and leaned back on his heels slightly. “S-sir-” Yorri started before Geroge’s hand shot up and covered his mouth with his palm. The knight held them both still, listening. The sound of the careful footsteps of the patrolling sentry were gone, a deadly silence hung in the air. Beads of sweat started to roll down the sides of George’s face, catching in the stubble on his cheek left unattended due to their early morning departure from their own camp. The knight never liked to start the day without shaving, though the surprise task this morning robbed him of his usual ritual. Eventually they heard movement from beyond the hedgerow again, though not the careful steps of the sentry patrolling. The branches rustled seemingly under the inspection of a gloved hand. George’s free hand moved to his own lips, his index finger extending to carefully press against them signaling silence. The squire nodded, and George removed his hand from Yorri’s mouth. They carefully moved, Yorri closer to the opening and George just to his side. The former remained low, and the latter stood up slowly. The knight’s hand again firmly placed on the pommel of his sword, making sure it didn’t knock anything and betray their location. The sound of steps returned, though slower and more spaced. George correctly assumed the sentry’s focus now targeted the hedge and not the ground. With each step closer to them George felt his heart beat in his temples. He knew in a few steps their target would pass in front of their viewing space. Yorri would need to be quick, or their advantage would quickly be gone. After a few more steps the sound stopped, George swallowed hard. His ears straining, he heard the soft sound of a gloved hand tightening over a hilt of a sword. “Now!” George commanded as softly as he could. Yorri shot his hand through the opening, it jammed into the sentry. He first contacted a plate of the soldier’s armor, the pain of the impact rang through him, but Yorri’s hand still searched frantically for something to grip a hold of. “What the-” the sentry started. Yorris’ fingers quickly found something softer, “belt’s good,” he repeated in his head as he locked his fingers around the soldier’s belt and pulled hard. Before the sentry could finish his reactive question he felt the pull on his belt, off guard he started to fall off balance. Just as the soldier started to understand the situation George pushed himself through the hedge enough to extend his arms out and around the sentry. He locked them around the man’s neck and likewise pulled him back through the hegde. The three of them all tumbled backward, Yorri landing on his back, George on his side, and the sentry onto Yorri. A frantic movement of arms and limbs danced next to him as George quickly moved to rip off the man’s helmet. Yorri whelped under the weight of the sentry pressing him into the damp morning ground. The sentry wheezed to recover his voice from the fall and as he felt the strap of his helmet digging into the underside of his chin. With enough force the leather ripped from the rivet that attached it to the helmet. A large red imprint on the soldier’s skin showed the force required. George tossed the freed helmet aside with his left hand, and his right arm hooked around the sentry’s neck, holding it in his elbow. The knight squeezed his arm hard and brought his left hand back to grip his right wrist. With a heavy pull the sentry rolled off of Yorri, who took in a deep gasp of air, and landed on his back on top of George. The sentry gripped and clawed at the knight’s arm around his throat but still in shock and now losing air didn’t find meaningful purchase. In maybe a minute the struggling stopped, and George could feel the sentry’s body relaxing. Once he felt all movement stop he released his hold around the man’s neck. Quickly he pushed him off from on top of him. “Yorri, Yorri you dead?” The squire slowly started to pull himself up to sit, “not yet.” His voice said coarsely, his breathing more regular now. “Good,” George said before immediately moving to check their prisoner for signs of life. He leaned his cheek right above the man’s mouth, George felt shallow breaths in regular intervals against his stubbled skin. “Yorri grab the helmet, stick it back on our friend here, and help me carry him.” George commanded, his tone still quiet, but laced with the remaining adrenaline from the encounter. The squire rolled himself slightly to the side to turn his legs to the side before leaning forward to get up on fours. He scrambled to grab the helmet George tore from the sentry and did as instructed. They each hooked an arm under their prisoner’s armpits and pulled him up. Immediately they started moving back the way they originally came. The sun fully free from the horizon singled the advancing time of day, even though their whole morning to this point felt as if only a few minutes passed. “Some plan Sir,” Yorri said, through heavy breaths carrying their heavy load. “I think I broke my hand.” George gave spaced out chuckles in time with his own heavy breaths. “Where was that in my plan?”


The farmer that picks me up notices immediately that I am a foreigner. Though my long, hooded cloak is nondescript, his careful eye lingers on the fine embroidery of my long-sleeved shirt, the glint of metal beneath it. He says nothing about what he sees or assumes; I see him eyeing the space beneath his legs and surmise that there is a weapon there. Nearly an hour passes without him speaking to me. “Is this your first time traveling through Avern lands, madam?” he asks, not turning around. The cart carries us over a large stone in the road. I brace against the farmer’s boxed goods. “Yes,” I said. “Traveling further than Athant?” he inquires. The mare, a large, bay draft horse, plods on, swishing its tail at flies. The day is just heating up, and the horse will be happy to stop for water soon. I have been hearing the trickling sounds of a stream. “I may be,” I reply shortly. Then, because there is a chance he has the information I need, I go further. “I’m looking for someone. A wizard by the name of Hyto. Have you heard of him?” The farmer turns to look at me, assessing me openly. His eyes fall on the armor breastplate hidden beneath my shirt, and he sighs. He doesn’t know that the armor is secondhand. I had plucked it from a fallen foe. It was intact despite the many times I struck him. Oddly, it fits my form perfectly. “Aye, lady, I do know of him.” I lean forward, keenly interested. The next part of my adventure is about to unfold. “Do you know where I can find him?” The farmer purses his lips, considers what details he should let slip. I have already given him a golden piece for this ride, and I consider giving him a second. But he shrugs to himself and speaks. “I cannot in good faith fail to warn you: the Wizard Hyto claimed residence in the hills to the west of Athant months ago. Since then, it is rumored that he preys on the city’s children, grinding their bones for his spells. You aren’t the first would-be hero passing through here. Would be a shame to die as the others did.” He returns his gaze to his horse’s ears and the road beyond. “Why do you warn me?” I ask. “I’d heard for every hero he slays, he spares a child.” “He spares neither child nor adult,” the farmer replies bitterly, spitting off the left side of the cart. “Would be a pity to die for nothing. Brave you may be, and talented, but no man or woman has killed him yet, nor gotten close.” The road ahead curves to the left around a lake. The sound of a stream gets louder, and I see the source - a bubbling brook that feeds into the otherwise vast and placid lake. The farmer utters a word to the horse, and we pull off to the side and come to a stop beneath the shelter of a tall oak tree near the edge of the lake. I get out and wordlessly help the farmer release his horse from the cart. He walks her to a small pine tree and loosely ties her to the trunk so that she can drink from the stream and graze among the shore grass and undergrowth. Milling around, I discover a small box near the shore. I remove my hand-ax from its leather straps at my side and hack open the wooden frame. Inside, I find apples, cheese, and bread, as well as a rare healing potion. One can never have too many healing potions (the capacity to store them is problematic, though), so I slip the potion into my bag. “Here,” I say, my arms full of goods. “Let’s have lunch while your horse rests.” The farmer nods, and we both sit beneath the oak tree. The farmer doesn’t thank me and we both dig into the food in near-silence. There are so many boxes with food and goods in the countryside, it’s a wonder anyone starves. Birds take flight across the lake, their chirps and squawks the only sound beyond chewing. “These are the days of rumor,” the farmer says, swallowing a piece of bread. “Rumors of wizards and wild magic. Rumors of prophecies being fulfilled in these dire times. How is a person to know truth from rumor?” I say nothing, so he continues. “Rumor has it the great beast Nevive has been seen again after generations. Rumor has it that these are end times - fire and famine and drought afflict every known land. But rumor also has it that there is someone who can fight, who can save us. A man doesn’t know what to believe.” The farmer looks at his hands, strong, calloused hands, and wipes the crumbs on his pant leg. I am about to response to his strange speech when the first arrow hits the trunk above our heads. “We’re under attack!” I scream. We both take cover in the slope of the shore, and the mare whinnies in fear and pulls at her rope as more arrows descend. “In the tree line running along the shore!” the farmer screams. He’s right - and has a spotter’s tact for it. I file this information away for later and draw a bow from my back. It snaps into the right shape and I’ve already loosed two arrows when the farmer runs ahead, toward the tree line. “Come on,” he shouts. “We have to expose their cover or we’ll never be rid of them.” Without confirmation from me, he continues darting, sometimes crawling, up the shoreline. I follow closely until I can see the first of them - brigands, by their mismatched style of clothing. I draw out an arrow, aim, and fire - but the brigand isn’t stopped by the blow. With the arrow in his shoulder, he runs toward us, screaming. The farmer stabs him once, then again, with a large dagger. So that’s what his hidden weapon had been back at the cart. Another brigand comes screaming out after her companion. She doesn’t seem to see him, dead on the ground, and stomps on him. The crossbow in her hand is replaced with a dagger, fierce and jagged, and she engages me. I pull out my ax and swing it toward her. It hits her in the arm, and I swing again, and again, until she has fallen in a pool of blood. The farmer looks at me and nods, his dagger still raised. I am bending down to see if there is anything of interest on the brigands’ bodies when a loud roar and shuffling sound comes from deeper in the copse of trees the brigands had staged their attack from. The farmer and I don’t have to wait long to see the source of the horrific noise - a beast with grey fur and black scales emerges from the forest, its dried-blood-brown eyes wetly taking us in before charging. I keep the ax ready in my right hand, and with my left fumble for a potion. My fingers alight on the right one. I toss the brown glass container at the beast precisely at a moment it shrieks so loudly I think my ears will burst. The farmer cowers, his dagger over his head. For a minute, I worry about the potion - was it strong enough? Will it kill the monstrosity before it can sink its teeth into my soft flesh? But then the beast howls, this time in pain, and begins to bubble. It falls to its knees, if the twisted knobs beneath its scales can be called that, and its breath rattles and slows. It dies quickly. I peer at the creature, not knowing if there is anything salvageable beneath its stinking hide. “You killed a craycaw,” says the farmer breathlessly beside me. He is wheezing every couple of breaths. “Can I sell the teeth? Does the blood have any magical properties?” I query him. “The teeth were once used in spells,” he replies, catching his breath. “But no one has killed a craycaw in generations.” The farmer looks at me with a new respect, then realizes I have caught him staring. He buckles to his knees and lowers his head. In an instant, I gather the craycaw’s teeth and secure them in my bag. It is none the heavier, despite each tooth being as large as my fist. "My lady," he says in a low tone. “I can see you are made of sterner, rarer stuff than I had thought." “You managed yourself well in the heat of the fight,” I reply, pleased at his obeisance. “I assume you have some training? Strange for a farmer, but these are strange times, as you’ve said.” He chuckles as he lifts himself to a standing position. “In my younger years, yes. And although I told you I am a farmer, I lied. I am Earl of these Avern lands, and I make it my business to meet and monitor any strangers or strange things traversing my land. But none are stranger than you - prophecy brought to life.” He is looking at me again, his eyes soft like one who has seen a miracle. “Which prophecy?” I ask, knowing the main one I’m supposed to be the incarnation of - the Widow Goddess, who rights the balance against evil and remakes the five territories. I’ve had that one lobbed at me by nobles and peasants alike since slaying the dragon that was menacing Tyriac. “A family legend,” he says smiling. “Of a shining lady who would save the last true heir to the throne of Athant from Nevive, a craycaw.” He bowed at the waist. “I am the last true heir. I have no children.” He doesn't explain why he is Earl, and not King, and I don't ask. Better to not get sidetracked from my mission. “Lady,” he continues. “I have an heirloom to bestow upon you, now that I can see you were destined to cross my path. Perhaps you are destined, then, to slay the wizard, and begin eliminating the great evils that have crept up from each craw and crevice of the five territories.” He pulls a necklace, a ruby encased in silver hung from a thick silvery chain. “This is the Heart of Bastow,” he proclaims. “It will protect you from fire. You will need it to kill the wizard.” He hands the necklace to me. I put it around my neck, liking the thudding sound it makes when it strikes my armor. I pull out a list and check off “Obtain Heart of Bastow”. It’s the last thing I need to do before accepting the bounty the King of Athant had secretly placed on the wizard’s head. *** A shiver goes through me as we cross into Athant. The sounds of the city are immediate and nearly overwhelming as the Earl pulls into building with a small courtyard. “My sister’s place,” he explains, then turns and enters the front door. Inside, the sounds of drinking and eating prevail over the lonely notes of a harp. The Earl’s sister had called a conference of the area’s top merchants earlier in the day, and they gamble, eat, and drink at her expense now. Much business had been settled earlier, she explains to us as we find a seat at one of the tables. I wander around, listening in on the merchants’ conversations. Finding a leather merchant at the end of our table, I discover he happens to have a steel-reinforced pair of boots for sale that are exactly my size. I purchase them and move on to the next merchant - a woman with a small, button nose, and big purple eyes that mark her as an apothecary of the magical sort. She agrees to sell me a firebolt spell and a potion that will heal wizard’s shock. Remarkable to find both here in the city beneath the wizard’s lair. When I am done buying from the merchants, the fire grows dim. I am shown to my bed, and I sleep deeply and dreamlessly. The Earl’s sister wakes me in the middle of the night. Thunder rumbles, and lightning casts pale strips of light on her face through the window. “I know what you’re here to do,” she says. “The time is now - the wizard is out of his tower and seeking children. Go now to his tower and lie in wait. Attack him when he returns. It’s your only chance.” I had fallen asleep completely clothed and armored, as I always do, so I run immediately from the household. Skirting a square, I notice the source of the lightning - Hyto is using it to attack a house. He stands some seven feet tall, and his face is lit with the fury of the storm. He doesn’t see me as I wind my way through the side of the square and creep up into the foothills. It isn’t long before I find the tower, and in fact a sign announces its name to me: Hyto’s Tower. I sneak into the unlocked front door and climb up two narrow sets of stairs. At the tower’s top, I find Hyto’s laboratory - the remnants of charred bone are scattered on a long table, and potions are secured behind a locked, framed-glass cabinet. I hear Hyto arrive behind me, clamoring for the stolen children to climb the steps, and I prepare my firebolt spell. The children - a boy and a girl - ascend the stairs before he does. They see me and somehow understand what is about to happen - they dash for cover behind a table in the far side of the room. Hyto enters the room next, and the onslaught begins. I throw a firebolt at him, and he returns with wizard’s fire. The necklace protects me from the fire, but not from what comes next: a blast of ice so cold, I feel my bones begin to warp. Stifling a scream, I cast another firebolt at him as I take a healing potion. Momentarily relieved, I hack at him with my ax, but this doesn’t damage him much. He rounds on me casting ice again, and I suffer. I dig in my bag for my last healing potion and drink it - casting fire, and then tossing poison at him. A purple cloud surrounds him. The poison is doing its work, but not fast enough. He casts the ice at me again, and this time, I have no more healing potion. My bones warp, then snap, and he howls in victory, even as the poison eats his skin from his face. My last image is of his ghastly eyes, the lids torn away, and his howling laughter. I am restored at the entrance to Athant. The Earl pulls his horse up to his sister’s house and hops heavily out of the cart. “My sister’s place,” he explains. I will get another chance to slay the wizard Hyto. I am the prophesied Widow Goddess, and I will fulfill my mission, no matter how many deaths it takes me.


(For context: I'm not exactly an expert writer and I've never posted a story on reddit before. This is a Sci-Fi semi-dystopian setting where instead of actual food, people eat Deram, a perfectly efficient yet super bland food that's basically just a block of nutrients.) Entry 174-1, 24/7/2063 I've been looking into black market circles recently. I know that Deram is government regulated ultra-healthy perfectly efficient stuff, but I just want good food, you know? Like those old people talk about. Some of them say that taste can be almost as vivid as sight when you have the right food.I'm gonna go down to a place soon. It's far away so I probably won't have time to write any more. Entry 175, 25/7/2063 Wow, I expected this place to be less well kept than it is. Some of the stuff round here is really expensive. I'm going for apples because they're only €4,000. There's an auction for Gillams. It's a recreation of some kind of vintage snack product, worth €1,200,000,000. I guess that's what happens when you have to conduct operations underground while running away from police drones. Apparently it was only a few euros back in the late 20's. I wonder what the apples will taste like. A lot of people on the internet told me that when people have their first taste of certain "flavours" of food, they go into "food shock" for a few minutes, like their brain can't figure out what's happening. They stop actually thinking and just go into pure emotion Surely it can't be that crazy, right? Entry 176, 25/7/2063 AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH WOW, food shock definitely exists. I've never felt so surprised. I'm gonna have to throw away some Deram or I'll be too heavy to pass the weight checks. I'm pre Entry 177, 25/7/2063 Oh god. The market just got attacked by police. Some guy was giving away stuff so he wouldn't be incriminated by the food and I now own an €80,000,000 can of "Brody's Instant Mac N Cheese." I'm either rich or in prison. I've been running away from the drones and I've placed some bread, just to tempt the officers. There's no way I'm leaving without this food. It's too valuable and I can't give something like this up. Entry 178, 25/7/2063 I've done it. I've actually done it. I've secured the Gillams. I found a pile of food on the floor - Really expensive stuff - And the guy with the Gillams traded my big pile for his bag. This is a once in a lifetime experience. If I go into food shock here they'll probably catch me, and I don't wanna risk it so I'm going home. Entry 179, 26/7/2063 The taxi driver held me at gunpoint. He knew about the market too. But there was this guy named Kyle, he was running away from the raid and just hit the driver with a shovel. I gave him some of the Gillams as thanks. And I can confirm: They taste great.


“Are you there, God? It’s me.” Savannah was now standing in front of the little cabinet next to her bed. She was wishing for a miracle but when she opened it, it was still empty. She had been trying to remember everything she had been taught about talking to the Lord. She was so upset but she figured this was as good a time as any. The preacher had said the Lord was everywhere and knew everything. He was watching over her and he knew her every move and thought. “Lord, you know that my grandmother gave me that necklace.” Savannah said as she wiped the tears that had started flowing down her face. Her great great grandmother had given the necklace to her Nana on her 13th birthday and her Nana had given it to her. There was no way she could go home without it. She could not bear to see the look of disappointment in her grandmother's eyes. She was expected to pass it down to her oldest granddaughter someday when that girl turned 13. She should have never taken it off, she thought. She had put it in the little cabinet right beside her cot. Everyone had a little cabinet to lock their personal belongings in. She must have forgotten to lock it and someone had stolen her necklace because it has disappeared. There had been a big todo when Savannah said she was taking the necklace with her to camp. Her mom suggested that she leave it home where it would be safe. She had wanted to show them all that she was responsible enough to keep up with her own possessions. Now look at what had happened, her mother had been right as usual. Savannah thought to herself, “There were four girls assigned to each room and about 20 rooms in the camp dormitory, 79 possible thieves.” She has asked all the girls in her room and they all swore up and down they had not taken it. They had even let her search their personal belongings just to reassure her it wasn’t one of them. She had gone to the camp counselors who were in charge of supervising the girls and told them what had happened. They asked her if she had locked her cabinet and when Savannah admitted that she had accidentally forgotten, they shook their heads and gave her a shrug like “Well, what did you expect?” She wanted to say she expected with all the religious stuff they had them doing daily that everyone would behave like angels. Obviously somebody was not getting the message. Stealing was one of those big sins, Savannah thought, it came right after “Thou shall not lie.” Savannah was the oldest granddaughter. Her Nana had 8 granddaughters and although her Nana would never admit it Savannah knew she was her favorite. She was feeling desperate as she walked across the campground. It was close to dinner time and all the girls were getting washed up and ready. There was no one paying her any attention as she walked in the opposite direction from the mess hall. She got to the small chapel and went inside. It was so quiet in there that she felt like she needed to walk gently, almost on her tiptoes, as she approached the altar. She knelt before the altar and she began to pray. “Dear Lord, this is Savannah. I know I have never really spoken to you before Lord. It isn’t that I didn’t believe, it's that up until now I wasn’t really sure how and didn’t need to bother you. First, I need to say Thank you for all the blessings you have given me. I am old enough now to realize just how blessed I am. I have my mother and father and my brothers and they all love me. I have my grandparents and lots of friends. I have never been hungry or cold or abused. I know you have a lot on your plate and I was careless in not locking my cabinet but Lord if you could just spare a few minutes and help me to get the necklace back I will try to be the best young lady I can be. I'll be more of a help to my mom and I’ll stop talking back to my dad and I will even try to be nicer to my younger brothers, but Lord they do try my patience at times. It is not just for me I want it back but my grandmother will be heartbroken. She thinks the world of me and she thought I was ready to handle such a big responsibility. This necklace is a big deal in our family. It has been in our family for five generations. Lord I know this is a lot to ask but when you think of it, it is really a very small miracle. I mean compared to all the big ones you have done. This one Lord would be just for me. Well, thank you Lord for listening and no matter what happens I want you to know I still believe in you and always will.” Savannah got up and walked quietly out of the chapel. She didn’t go to her dorm to get ready for dinner. She walked almost as if she was in a trance to Room Number #7. She entered the room on the left and went straight to Cot # 4 and the cabinet assigned to it. She bent and opened the cabinet and there was her necklace. Savannah put her necklace on and she kneeled down and said, “Thank you, Lord”. When she left the dorm she didn’t stop to see whose room she was in and she didn’t even feel the need to go to the camp counselors to let them know she had gotten her necklace back and to tell on the thief. You see it didn’t really matter. She knew that this was between her and the Lord and her faith. It was something she would carry for the rest of her life. .


I took a shower every morning as soon as I woke up. Showers are for normal every day people. I was always sure to wear fashionably conscious outfits. Black flats, dark blue skinny jeans, a flowy blouse, and a clean black blazer. There was, however, not much I could do about my hair. My products and accessories were on the outside. My hair would be just like the worst of them. A frizzy and dishoveled disappointment despite my best attempt at taming it. The depression down-do. Getting through the door was always the hardest part. The room itself was an open space. Cold and uninviting save the pretty view of Chicago through the window. It’s not about leaving the comfort of the room. There was no comfort there. It’s about leaving the cold to enter the freezing. Passing by the unfamiliar to enter the completely foreign. Leaving my last shred of sanity to plunge into a collective madness. Dionne Little was a successful journalist from DC. It is quite amazing how accomplished she is at 24. She sported what looked like expensive clothing, natural hair, braided and fastened in place, and a small silver septum ring that moved with her nose in unison as she ate or spoke. Though I didn’t have a desire to live, I desired greatly to be her friend. I remember Lilian Moto’s hair. Long, black, straight. She was warm, but a bit off-putting. She had a daughter and a family on the outside, but she mostly talked about her tiny dog, Bowzer. “I don’t like that he’s out there thinking his mommy left him all alone. But when he sees me I’m sure he’ll be giddy!” She shrieked with unnecessary laughter, and often. She seemed to be manic all the time, which was the opposite of Guy Alonzo. He was almost always calm. Maybe it was the artist in him. Maybe it was this place. It’s hard to be yourself here. No matter what yourself is. Ed Whittaker was - for lack of a better word - creepy. But not by choice. He was sick. He never knew where he was or who he was speaking to. He often stared at me like he recognized me, and called me Loretta. He had a pair of glasses with only one cracked lens intact. His hair sat in patches atop his head. Whether it grew that way or he pulled it out I don’t know. He talked about how the nurses were keeping him here and making him think he was crazy. He was crazy. He just didn’t comprehend it. Maybe that was better than the alternative. At least when you don’t know what your mental state is you don’t feel guilty for being who you are, or how you smell, or what you say. I didn’t have that luxury. Neither did most of these people. Sometimes we could get out of our heads. We’d watch the big bang theory as a group, play speed and other card games, eat meals together and talk about outside things. Sometimes we’d do things that used our minds’ capacities like playing chess. I liked letting my head wander to another world through a book. I was desperate to cling on to every single word in fear that I’d get my mind back. I didn’t want to get my mind back. I didn’t want to get my life back. But maybe that’s what this place is about. No matter how much you don’t want to continue your life in the real world, you’d rather do that than stay in the hospital. It wasn’t because it was dirty. It wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t because the nurses were mean. They weren’t. It was because being there was a constant reminder that you - like the others who sleep in beds that aren’t theirs in rooms that have no pipes to hang themselves from or razor blades to cut themselves with staring away from the large wooden door that has an even smaller door in the middle of it that allows nurses to turn a key and check on them every hour at night - aren’t well. None of us were well, and not being able to escape that fact... That was worse than being alive.


Kevin dimmed the lights in the basement and joined his friends, legs crossed Indian-style, in a circle on the old concrete floor. He picked up an old aluminum flashlight from behind him and illuminated the underside of his chin. “Legend has it, that before my mom and dad bought this house, and before the old man they bought it from moved to Florida, that the old couple who lived here were in cahoots with real live witches.” The kids in the circle, all pimply middle school boys, hung onto Kevin’s every word. “Where’s cahoots?” asked a chubby, bespectacled seventh-grader named Johnny. “Beats me,” said Kevin. “I heard my parents talking about it with Aunt Teresa and Uncle Mike. I think it’s someplace in the Bahamas.” A resounding oooohhh of understanding rang through the circle of preteens. “Anyway, they must have brought back some of these witches from cahoots to stay with them in our house - right here in this basement. They practiced all kinds of rituals down here in this exact spot.” Eddy, one of the more mature looking kids in the group, snuck a glance over his shoulder just to be sure the boys were alone. To his alarm - they weren’t. “G-g-guys...” The boys who were next to him didn’t seem to hear him. Eddy could hear Kevin sharing the tale of the witches who lived in the basement but couldn’t quite make out the words. The sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears. In the far corner of the room, just barely visible with the light refracting on the ceiling, stood a figure in a long velvet robe. A woman with a pale face and sunken eyes swayed and mumbled something under her breath. Eddy jumped up from his spot in the circle. “Cut it out, Kev!” Kevin continued his story, which held the intense concentration of all of the boys in the circle. “They wore red robes, the color of blood, so when they did their sacrifices the stains wouldn’t show. And their faces were pale and glowed like the light of a full moon. There were two of them, a woman and a man. Both uglier than demons.” Eddy’s gaze snapped to the other side of the room at the sound of a light thump. He shivered as the old man, bent and disfigured, stood stark naked in the dark edges of the room. The hideous woman followed his lead and dropped her cloak, baring all. “According to the legend, the ones who can see the witches are never seen again,” Kevin said. “The witches make them vanish from sight.” Eddy kneeled down to Kevin and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Dammit, Kevin! Can’t you see them?” Kevin froze and his eyes bulged. His story cut short. “Shit,” Kevin said. The other kids sat quietly as the silence added to their fear. “What’s wrong?” asked Johnny. “I f-feel them... one of the witches... they’re right in front of us.” Eddy realized Kevin seemed to be looking directly through him. He moved over to a tiny boy named Pete and grabbed his arm. “Don’t just sit there!” Pete screamed and fought to yank himself free as he felt two invisible hands pulling him up off of the floor. “They’ve got me! Help!!” The other kids jumped into action to yank Pete free from the grasp of the invisible force. “No, it’s me! Guys, I’m right in front of you,” Eddy said. He spun around from his cowering friends and saw the two witches were inching closer, chanting their indistinguishable words in unison. The boys who were before him just a moment ago were already halfway up the stairs. Eddy sprinted up after them. The door to the basement was forced shut. The boys pounded on the door and cried out for help. Eddy tried to shove past them, which only added to their panic. “Shit! Get the flashlight,” Kevin said. The boys trudged down the stairs in a near stampede, as Eddy clung to the stair rail for support. He realized none of them could see him, but even worse, none of them could see the two witches. Kevin picked up the flashlight and shone it around the room. The beam stopped directly on the belly of the naked man. “I don’t see anything, do you guys?” A silver dagger gleamed in the man’s hand as he held it high in the air. Eddy sprinted toward Kevin and tackled him to the ground just as the dagger came slashing downward. Kevin seemingly flew through the air via some unseen force, and hit the ground, which knocked the air from his lungs and sent him gasping for air. The female witch held a wire clay cutter by the handles and began to wrap the thin wire around Johnny’s throat. “Johnny, look out!” Eddy yelled from his crouched position by Kevin. It was too late. The witch pulled the handles in opposite directions and began to strangle the kid. Eddy pulled himself up from the floor and grabbed an old chair from the corner of the room. “Look, Johnny’s choking!” yelled Pete. Johnny grabbed at the imaginary wire around his neck. His face began to turn an unsettling shade of reddish-purple. The old chair seemed to levitate from its spot at the edge of the room. Johnny winced as he braced for the chair to hit him, but instead, the chair shattered into splinters less than a foot from him. Johnny dropped to the ground as the witch let go of the wire handles. The boys were in full panic again. “Forget the flashlight!” Kevin yelled. The boys raced back up the stairs again. Eddy picked up a splinter of the chair and swung at the witches as they trudged toward him with angry, sunken eyes. Eddy backed toward the corner of the room opposite the stairs and knocked over the old metal shelves which held an array of household junk. The boys took turns pounding and shoving against the door, to no avail. Kevin stood still as if stricken by something. “Where’s Eddy?” The other boys stopped their pounding. “What do you mean?” asked Pete. “Right here...” The boys looked around blindly, but were struck with confusion. As the witches continued their unnatural hobble toward Eddy, he knocked over another shelving unit and a can of paint thinner clanked onto the floor. The thinner filled the air with fumes. Eddy felt blindly in the dark for anything that might protect him. His hands rested on a pile of old bricks, which he threw at the two approaching figures, but the blocks only seemed to irritate the witches more as they inched closer. Pete hurried down the stairs and spotted the bricks levitating, then flying, then stopping against some invisible force. “Do you guys...” he said. “Do you think it’s Eddy?” Kevin inched toward the commotion and stopped with plenty of space between himself and the airborne bricks. “Eddy!” His name cut through the sound of his own heartbeat with a resounding clarity. Suddenly, Eddy appeared, brick in hand, to the boys. “Guys! They’re right in front of me,” Eddy shouted. “Who?” they all asked. “The witches!” Eddy realized the witches had vanished from his sight. “Th-they were right there a second ago. I could see them...” Eddy’s voice grew weak and he began to cough as a hand hoisted him up from the ground. His feet kicked and swung as he levitated a few inches from the ground. “Holy shit...” Johnny said. The boys all looked at each other and seemed to come to an agreement. “He fought for us,” Kevin said. “We’ll fight for him. Aaaaaah!!” The boys all charged toward the unseen witches in an effort to save Eddy. Pete ran himself into the wall, running just shy of the figures, but the other boys managed to tackle them to the ground. Eddy fell to the floor and gasped for breath. He’d fallen on a box of matches, which had spilled from their box onto the concrete floor. He picked up a handful along with the box and stumbled over to the paint thinner can. “Get back!” he yelled. The boys moved aside as Eddy splashed the paint thinner into the open air before him. He struck a match and lit the fumes ablaze in a bright orange burst of fire. The boys lept backward from the power of the intense heat and gasped as the witches appeared before them in flaming glory. They watched as the figures writhed and let out an unearthly scream before collapsing to ashes at their feet. They all stood there in a moment of awe before they heard the basement door unlatch itself. Johnny looked up to Eddy and gave him a big squeeze. “Thanks for saving my life, Eddy.” he said. The other boys joined in. “Thanks for saving mine,” Eddy said. The boys started back up the stairs. The flames grew tamer before they fizzled out entirely. “That should send them back to cahoots once and for all,” Kevin said. They latched the basement door behind them and vowed never to talk of the witches in cahoots ever again.