I remember floating on my back in the waveless ocean, staring into the sun until my retinas ached, until the rest of my insides started to feel okay. I thought of mermaids, and I thought of sirens singing sailors to their demise. I wasn’t sure which I favored more--the sea, oblivious death, or an effortless life purpose. I stayed in the water until I started thinking that maybe I wouldn’t leave the water for a long, long time and rolled my body from my back to my stomach and made myself slowly drift back to shore. I knew everyone at the beach bar, some more intimately than others. It was a small island; I possessed information about people that clung to me, stuck to my skin like sweat and humidity, lacking any humility. It was shift change at the bar and Scarlett was leaving. Her husband died from pneumonia three years ago in the same hospital their daughter was born in three days earlier. She made a drink with elderflower and cranberry juice that she called the Scarlet Begonia. Red was coming onto shift. Her boyfriend hung himself a few months ago and people were crudely saying it was her fault. Her hands shook as she distributed shots around the bar like a factory worker, but everyone’s hands shook around here, at least in the mornings or late into the night. I almost laughed out loud, watching Scarlett and Red closing out checks and exchanging money, with my knees propped up on the bar and my face tipped toward the sun; they were both different shades of the same color. * Something always happens to me when it’s dusk and the alcohol is finally impairing me in the ways I think I need, and everyone’s faces become a little softer around the edges. My body is suddenly a howling pink, framed against the sky swallowing the last of the setting sun. I finally feel emancipated from the loneliness of the day, where you’re supposed to have a purpose, more of a plan. The night is freedom. I recognized the shape of him, coming up to the bar from the beach, knowing that he eventually would. He still looked like a boxer, head slightly lowered, his last name tattooed across his squared, tan shoulders. Red gave him a Budweiser and shot of Fireball without saying anything to him and he grabbed the beer and took a swig before sitting down. He was friends with her boyfriend and he and Red used to work on a boat together, but they didn’t speak now. We made eye contact as he picked up his shot. I waved without changing my blank facial expression, tilting my head slightly to the side. He gestured with the shot toward me and tossed it into the back of his throat. He drank another round, ordered by leaving his empty beer and glass at the top of the counter with Red wordlessly replacing them, before he circled around the bar and sat next to me. We always needed that thin, palliative veil of alcohol between us. “By yourself?” I was always by myself, until I wasn’t. I would have sighed, but by this time I was drunk enough to admit to myself that I was waiting around for him all day. * He often had a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth like it was his last chance at dying, his squinted eyes overlooking turquoise surf with sea salt lining his skin, the clouds moored in the sky like the charter boats in the harbor below. He had this idea that the sea would save his soul; I was afraid it would wash away his tired body. Over the nights in his bedroom, windows open, wind whipping the doors against the walls, my earrings placed on his headboard, I pieced together his story. He would fight other kids with his brothers on the train tracks in Kansas City. He went from Ponyboy to a short-lived Golden boy, boxing and then moving to the island and still fighting, over women and bar stools, boat assignments and pool cues. Now, sixteen years later, he was weary, beat. He maneuvered his jeep sharply around the never-ending potholes in the road. I had my arm hanging out the window and my feet propped up on the dashboard, my usual stance while in his passenger seat, perpetuating an air of being carefree, unbothered. Sometimes I was close to that feeling. Tonight I was thinking about moving from the island back to an anonymous city. I was thinking about the two daughters he left in the states, who he wasn’t allowed to visit, who he never told me about and I never asked him about. I thought about fate and the endless parallels of this place, how we were all caricatures of each other. For every sad girl there was another sad girl, probably wearing the same bathing suit. For every angry man there was another angry man, drinking the same beer and convincing himself that the ocean was saving the good parts of himself that his actions were trying to expel. For the first time, I wondered about the things he knew about me that I never told him, passed on from people I barely knew--the drawer in my kitchen halfway filled with empty drug bags, the catalog of men I’ve made for myself here, a sudden trip back to the states with a speculation of an abortion, my dead father. We all knew these shameful and tragic things about each other and carried them with us alongside of our own burdens. I just couldn’t decide if it was better to be quiet about it, swallow all of it down to make room for the next person’s story, or just unload all of it onto the dashboard between us and maybe the day would be a little sturdier for us to stand on. I turned my head from the stars whipping past the windows and looked at him, without any emotion behind my glance, just simply regarding him. This time I did sigh out loud, when maybe the sigh should have been something more purposeful. Was I the siren, the sailor, or the entire sea? I’d start over again tomorrow.


Wind whipped through my hair, tangling it about my face even as I twisted it and tucked it back under my hat again. The height of the crow’s nest exaggerated everything. The sharp bite of the wind, the pitch and the sway of the ship. I wrapped one arm around the mast, even as I leaned out over the ocean. The sea is a temperamental creature, but she wears her heart on her sleeve. Some days she is a tame beast, glassy and clear. Other days she is exuberant, blue and white-capped, playing in the sunshine. Some days she is angry, dark and fomenting, slapping the hull of the ship. Today she is a moody gray, all troubled currents, and uneasy waves. Much like our captain. I could see her standing at the prow of the boat, one hand clutching the railing, black hair escaping the long braid down her back to wave in the wind like tentacles. She hadn’t moved from that post for three days, always staring down the horizon as if she could make land materialize by the sheer force of her gaze. She’s a fierce woman, smart as a whip, and faster with her sword than a diving hawk. She has a formidable will, but she has always been reasonable. Until three days ago. Promising us a legendary treasure, but refusing to tell us what it was or where we were going, refusing meals and sleep, demanding that we increase our speed. I ran a thumb along a pocket in my vest. Earlier this evening I had snuck into the captain’s cabin to try and find answers to the strangeness of our captain’s behavior. The crew had begun to mutter about a curse or treasure sickness. We needed answers. I drew the short straw. I had never been inside the captain’s cabin before. My heart had beat against my ribcage like a bird trying to escape, even though I knew the captain was above deck and had not moved from the spot for days. The cabin was a sight, I will say that. A bed on one side, bolted to the floor, shrouded by velvety red curtains. But the most majestic sight was the rounded wall of windows, through which the sky and sea could be seen, and a broad mahogany desk upon a thick carpet. Maps and star charts sprawled across the surface of the desk, weighed down by a candelabra on one end and a coral encrusted glass bottle on another. The clamor of the sailors above deck had been muffled, and the loudest sound had been the creaking of the ship and the ever-present roar of the ocean bearing us onward. Hot wax had dripped down the side of my candle and onto my hand as I peered over the salt-stained parchments and rifled through the curled pages of the captain’s logbook. I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. Headings scrawled along map edges had obscured coastlines, and when I compared the star charts with the logbook, all I could see was that we were heading towards a circled spot on the map. But it was just a patch of empty ocean. In an effort to find more answers I had tugged open one of the desk drawers. It had stuck a little, the wood warped by the moisture of being at sea no doubt. Something had clattered at my feet and I had thrown myself backwards, but it had just been a large coin of unidentifiable currency with a hole in the center. A string had been attached, and a small folded note. I had scanned the note, but it was just an old personal note. No answers there. I had tried to fit it back under the drawer, but it wouldn’t slide back underneath. I had pocketed it instead. The papers in the drawer hadn’t been much help either. An old captain’s log. A leather-bound copy of the Pirate’s Code. More charts and maps, some old letters. I had come across an interesting page, however, with jagged edges, as if it had been ripped out of a book. It was some kind of short entry on myths and legends. On one side was part of an entry describing a compass that pointed you towards what your heart desired most, and a pocket watch that could somehow turn back time, but on the other side was the description of a aqua-colored diamond called the “Heart of the Sea.” Perhaps it was this legendary diamond the captain was obsessed with. A sudden gust of wind blew me back, and I almost pitched off the edge of the crow’s nest. My arm was almost wrenched out of its socket as I grabbed the mast tighter. I should have been keeping better watch. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon like black gauze, flickering with lightning. “Storm dead ahead,” I screamed at the sailors below. A group, white shirts billowing in the wind, glanced up at me, and then at the horizon. They ran to the captain. She nodded and waved her hand, dismissing them. Surely we would change direction. “Riley, ring the bell!” Alfred shouted up to me. “All hands on deck.” All hands on deck meant that the captain intended for us to ride out the storm. “We should change course!” I shouted back. “It looks bad. Real bad!” Alfred glanced back at the prow. A couple sailors were arguing with the captain, but she kept shaking her head. As I watched, she turned to glare up at me. “All hands on deck!” she bellowed. I rang the bell, my eyes on the darkening horizon. This was going to be a long night. Sailors spilled onto the deck like ants emerging from an anthill. They scattered across the deck, tying and untying ropes. A few began to scale the masts, to tie up the sails. They were all wide-eyed. The atmosphere crackled with tension, like the static in the air before a lightning strike. The waves grew more agitated. The mood of the sea had changed. The color had deepened, the swells steeper, the white foam turning to frenetic gray froth. The wind too changed. Before it had been strong, but playful. Now it had begun to howl and wail. The storm grew quickly overhead, turning a moody evening into a premature night. I climbed down from the crow’s nest, clinging to the rope ladder as the ship pitched in the angry waves. The first drops began to fall as I reached the deck. Someone threw me a rope to tie about my waist. That was not reassuring. It meant they expected men overboard. The rain began to fall in sheets. I gasped at the cold, water streaming in my eyes as I made my way across the slick deck. Thunder rumbled across the ocean like a growling beast. “Riley!” someone shouted, gesturing for me to help with tying up one of the sails. I slid across the deck, stumbling as it heaved underneath me. As I wiped rain away from my eyes and shoved soaked tendrils of hair behind my ears I saw that the captain had finally abandoned her post at the prow and was headed toward the wheel. “Has she really lost it?” someone shouted at me, to be heard over the rain and the wind. My reply was lost as a crack of thunder overhead sent us all running. Lightning split open the sky, blinding white. A wave crashed against the side of the boat, drenching us all. Someone shoved a bucket into my hands. The ship pitched violently down, and my stomach dropped. With a thunderous crash, it broke through a wave. A wall of water slammed me against a mast. I stumbled away, trying to get my bearings. The timbers of the ship shivered under my feet. The night became a blur of shouts and screams, thunder and lightning flashes. Water was everywhere, rain slicing at me from above, spray being whipped into my face by the wind, waves crashing from all sides. I bailed out water, I hauled rope until my hands were chafed, I stumbled across the deck, clinging to whatever surfaces I could find as the ground bucked unpredictably beneath me. Lightning sliced through the dark, revealing white-knuckled hands and strained faces, and the heart-stopping swells that our ship sailed through. Lightning struck one of the masts, and sent flaming pieces crashing down from above. Jo had to scale the mast, slick with rain, to tie up the sail by hand so it wouldn’t be ripped to shreds. Alfred was almost tossed into the ocean, saved only by the rope tied around his waist. And the captain, through it all, at the helm, wrestling with the wheel, trying to steer us straight. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but some time later I was clinging to the edge of the ship, soaked through to the bone, chilled and exhausted. The wind still screamed above, and the waves still flooded the ship, and the lightning still streaked and danced in the sky. But a cold feeling swept over me, like my heart sinking, my stomach dropping. I was near the front of the ship, but in the dark and the with water streaming from my eyes I could barely see the pointed prow. But then, a flash of lightning illuminated the sea. A giant wave, enough to overturn us, gathered before my eyes, creating a slope so deep it looked like the prow was almost pointed straight down. “Brace!” I screamed, hoping that all sailors would find something to grab onto in time to not be swept overboard. I had seen lesser waves pluck men from the deck and toss them into the deep like ragdolls. And then I held my breath as the mountain of a wave crashed down over our heads. A terrible sound filled the air, a wail, a screech. The sound of nails being wrenched from their boards. A shrill creak, a scraping that sent shudders down every spine. I was certain we had been overturned and the sea, in her wrath, was tearing the ship apart beneath my feet. I lay curled on the deck of the ship, arms wrapped around the rail, eyes squeezed shut. In the quiet that followed the awful shrieking, I realized that the sound of the storm had grown muffled and that rain no longer pummeled me from above. I opened my eyes to darkness. Slowly I uncurled my fingers and hauled myself to my feet. I could still hear the splash of waves. I was still breathing air and not water. I patted the deck beneath my feet, my fingers skimming across the wet wood. The ship was still there. What had happened? Sounds of confusion began to rise up around me, as the rest of the crew realized our situation. We seemed to be sheltered from the storm, but in total darkness now. I touched my hand to my nose, but I couldn’t see it. All the sounds had gone strange and echoey, bouncing off some invisible surface. And then a light flared. I caught sight of the captain, hair wild around her face, torch in hand, her teeth brilliant in the glare of the light. “We have arrived!” she shouted. “Arrived where?” someone shouted back. “Lower the boats,” the captain ordered, and she stuck out her arm. Another torch caught fire, and slowly the place began to take shape. We had sailed straight into a cavern. Torches lined the walls, affixed in braces. The ocean turned into a far more placid pool within this cave. We scrambled into the boats that were lowered, and rowed ashore. The pool led to a rocky beach within this cave, where we left the boats. Each of us soon had a torch, orange light dancing over all our faces. The captain led the way and we followed behind, except for a “skeleton crew” left behind to guard the ship. Someone had carved steps that led up to another pool inside this vast cavern. A waterfall spilled into it, but I couldn’t see its source. We passed by on a narrow ledge of dry ground, deeper and deeper into the cave. The captain held a compass in her hand and her first mate had unrolled a map. They led us deeper into the cave, past strange pillars that dripped from the ceiling like melted earth, through winding tunnels of jagged stone, through another small room of smoothed, rounded stone whose walls glistened with salt crystals. Finally, we reached an even larger room within the cavern. It was so big that every sound was echoed back a dozen times, and the light of our torches could not show the edges of it. A bridge stretched across a chasm of indeterminable height. It was little more than a couple pieces of ropes tying together some rotting planks of wood. We crossed one at a time, holding our breath, gripping the edges as we swayed above empty air, and testing each step before committing our full weight. Alex broke through one plank, but she was saved by grabbing onto the ropes and pulling herself forward. On the other side, four pillars jutted up from the earth like the pointed fangs of some beast. And nestled between them was a great wooden chest. It was locked, but rusted and the captain smashed it open with the butt of her pistol. Was this the legendary treasure she had promised? Was it the Heart of the Sea? The crew all gathered around, with bated breath. The captain flung open the lid. A sigh of wonderment escaped us all. Full to the brim with glimmering treasure. Goblets, a crown, silver bowls, a necklace and all sunken in a flood of coins. We cheered, our shouts echoed back by the cavern. The captain began to shout, flinging the treasure from the chest. At first we thought it was in joy at finding such a treasure, but then we began to hear her words. “Where is it? Where is the watch?” We all looked at each other in confusion, watching our captain tear through the treasure, wild and desperate. She turned to her first mate. “It’s not there. It’s. Not. There. The watch.” Together they dug through the treasure. But to no avail. I pulled out the folded page that I had stolen from the desk drawer. “Captain? I thought we were looking for the Heart of the Sea?” The Captain snatched the parchment from my hands. “The Heart of the Sea?” she said. “What on earth are you talking about?” She glanced at the page. “The Watch. That turns back time. That is what I’ve been seeking all this time.” “But...why? What use is that to us?” “What use!” The captain threw her hat to the ground and sunk her fingers into her tangled hair. “What use?” She turned her back on us. I noticed her shoulders begin to shake. Was she ... crying? The crew backed away from her. We glanced at each other, wide-eyed, like frightened horses showing the whites of our eyes. We could handle savage tempests at sea and we could threaten sailors at sword-point, but tears turned us all weak-livered. I ran my thumb along my vest pocket. The coin pendant, tied to the folded note still nestled inside. Tentatively, I followed her and put a hand on her back. I don’t know what strange courage possessed me to do such a thing. She flinched away from my touch. “Captain?” She wept silent, airless sobs. “I needed ... that watch.” “To...turn back time? To...what?” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “Four years ago. My...I need to visit someone.” “Visit someone? We have a ship. We can sail anywhere.” She laughed, short and dry. “I suppose you could sail to the realm of the dead. But you won’t come back.” “Oh. I see.” The Captain heaved a deep breath. “While I was at sea...my mother...It was pneumonia. She drowned on dry land. A friend told me.” “It’s not your fault. People get sick on land and on sea.” The Captain shook her head sharply. “The last thing she said...she wanted to see me. Asked for me. When I was going to come home...and I was at sea.” The Captain turned to me. “Don’t you see? She died alone. Thinking no one loved her. Because I could only think of myself!” I touched my vest pocket and brought out the coin with the folded note. Some strange impulse prompted me to show it to her. “I found this, it...fell out at my feet just earlier today. I don’t know why, but I feel like I should return it.” The captain pinched the coin in her fingers. She gasped. “My mother gave this to me. Long ago. I haven’t seen it for years. What...” She unfolded the note. I had already seen the words. I know you must choose your own path darling. The sea and freedom is yours. And I know you must chase that love, even as you love me. I fear my health is failing me quickly and I may not see you again. So carry my love with you always.


Have you ever had a brain failure? I mean like your brain making you say or do things that later on, you realize that you do not know who was using your brain! Well this beautiful blonde knocked on my door and as soon as I opened, she fell into my arms sobbing. I cried with her on my shoulder, not knowing what was happening. When the awkward long hung finished, looked her in the eyes trying to say something, then I realized that her face was familiar. She was the “perfect blonde” who hangs out with the body builder next door. Confused as I was, I offered her to come have a sit and hopefully I would make sense of the situation but then she all over sudden gave me a weird look and let go off my hands and stormed out slamming my door. I stayed there frozen. I kind of need a hug, I guess. It had been several weeks since I left the house, I had been surviving on tears and snots plus bags of chips. My initial idea was to add chocolates on the menu, but being my favourite snack, I didn’t want to corrupt my relationship with the beautiful happy moments companion. For a moment I seemed to forget the reason for my misery, I don’t know if it was because of the unexpected hug or because on my way to the door I looked myself in the mirror and didn’t seem to recognize myself; then it clicked. Few weeks back, I was at my work place when our washrooms broke. I live in a small town with one mall and I worked in a grocery store in the mall. One pipe trouble in town means that all washrooms are out of order. you have to hold your bladder and/or intestines, or seek cover in the bushes near by for that amazing sense of freedom. I was a new resident in town, thus a new employee, I had no friends and knowing myself, it would take really long to make friends. My boyfriend Tim was my only friend around. I couldn’t think of a nearby place where I could seek cover to relieve myself if need be. But I was not worried, I was going to be okay, I had trained my bladder to hold on long. Oh how I was wrong! I worked without a care in the world, chasing from my mind any idea that my bladder is trying to communicate. My shift was slowly getting to the end, I had to rinse some veggies in cold water before I finished. I got the produce out, placed them in the sink, but when I opened the water tap, it felt like my urine carrying vessel was laughing at me waiting to see if I pass the water test. As soon as I touched the cold water, it was like my bladder was being squished. I wanted to pee so bad that turned around, crossed my legs and avoided breathing loud. I made dance moves I never thought I would ever be able to do. I could imagine co-workers calling each other to come and enjoy the show in the computer room from the cameras. The new shy girl was putting on a show! After realizing that there was no way I was going to rinse the veggies without touching the water, or touch the water without opening the flood gates in me, I rushed outside. I was ready to do anything, even if it meant squirting in the middle of the parking lot, besides it was really dark outside, but then, it was thirty degrees below freezing. The idea of having frozen genitals experience pushed me towards my car and I left without letting any body know and that’s how I lost my job. But that was not why I was miserable. I drove home, god knows how fast, I climbed the stairs one by one as if a clock was ticking last seconds to the blast, my key was ready in my hand to open the door, but to my surprise the door pushed open. Even better. I glanced around and noticed Tim sitting on the couch. I avoided opening my mouth, careful not to let anything out of my pants, I got to the washroom door, pushed it but it was not moving. I didn’t waste any time, I rushed outside to the neighbour’s room, knocked and the door pushed open. Someone was in the way, I pushed passed him and proceeded to the washroom. I didn’t need directions, I was pretty sure all apartments in the building were of the same design. Fewf... finally, if you know the feeling, you know. On my half way through gaining back my freedom to breath, I remembered the scenario, Tim home during his working hours and the washroom locked! There must be someone in there! I hurried up and rushed out to go catch them red handed. Except the guy I pushed on my way to the washroom was still laying down on the flow. Shamefully, I extended my hand to help him up. And that’s when I realized I don’t have control over my brain. The guy was a massive gym maid human being, how in the earth did I think that my small hand would lift his well built body? As you can imagine, I fell face down on top of his half naked body. Again, my brain left me! I didn’t know if I was supposed to admire audibly what was layered under my face, because I wanted to, or keep moving to my mission to burst Tim’s affair. My thoughts were interrupted with the sound of a familiar voice. “I knew it!” Said Tim who was standing right above us. “What did he know?” I asked as I rushed up. Tim was in the room packing up. He was living me! I loved Tim, he is a great caring guy that I met many years ago, we tried to separate before but every time we would end up together again. It was like we had a pact that none of us would be truly happy without the other. I had pushed Tim away before but this time, it felt different. I had teased his looks compared to The gut next door. I even encouraged him to hit the gym too every time we would cross ways with the guy and the blonde coming back from working out. Tim had complained that I was not happy with the way he looked but all our conversations around that subject were jokes. We both knew that we couldn’t give up the joy we get from sharing a pizza or chocolates. Except he was the one who put on all the weight. My body is the kind of “it’s not fair body”. But still I found him attractive all the time. He was going to come back I believed. While I was still thinking about what just happened, I heard a knock on the door. I knew it, Tim was back... “Well.. that was a short break-up” I said as the door was pushing open. “Sorry, but... is everything okay?” It was not Tim but the guy. “No, no I am sorry for breaking into your house..” “I saw your....” He said pointing out. “ my boyfriend...” “Yeah, your boyfriend leaving, are you okay?...” “ Yeah I am okay, I am sure he is coming back... it’s just a big misunderstanding” I wanted this guy to get out of my face, but I also needed someone to help me make sense of the situation, to kind of shake my brain back into the position. I was trying to breath in and out and he noticed and helped me with the breathing exercise, kind of motioning my lungs activities with his hands. “I will leave you alone for now, but if you need anything you know every conner of my place.” When he opened the door to leave, there was Tim and his bags.


The Light and Flame By Zachariah Chamberlin Pain. Blood. Cold. Gravity. I don’t remember feeling any of these before. I look around, but I can’t see anything. It’s so dark here. I feel something like sand under my feet, maybe mud. I also feel cold air whip across my skin. “Wait, what are those?” I pick up a stone. Breathe in the cool air. I can’t think straight. I have never been anywhere except... Except. “Where am I from?” I think to myself. “Not from here. I know this somehow. I’m new here.” Wherever this place is, or what it is called, it lacks a sun. I know that’s a thing. I’ve seen her. I’ve felt her warmth and heard her singing in space. There are no songs here. No light or warmth. I must find these things. I must walk. Sitting here will not change my current situation. I needed light, though. Then maybe I can get away from this place and return to... “Return to who? Who waits for me?” I suddenly feel a significant loss within me. I had loved and been loved, but somehow I lost that. I wasn’t always alone or in the dark. I was filled with the light and love of... of... Father? I was the light of our home. He loved me most because I was his first. His brightest and most beautiful creation. I was his light. Light. “What!” I exclaim. Strange, I had not spoken as of yet. My voice sounded like music, and I couldn’t help laughing at this. “Have I not heard my own voice before.” Now, the thing that caught my attention flares again. Light. It’s so close to me. “Where did it come from?” I run to it. I want this light so much that I ignore the sharp rocks cutting into the souls of my feet. It’s dancing as though it’s happy to see me too! “Hello!” I scream. The light gets brighter, and I begin to laugh like I did when I was with Father. The light waves back to me like the flares of the sun. I miss her. I’m almost there! My feet land on small round things laid out all around the light. They are like the grains I stood on. Only bigger. They surround the light, which is trapped in some sort of liquid. It is dancing in the cool... water. A smile breaks across my face. If it has a name, it can be controlled, beaten, or made to serve. “You are water! You will free the light and serve me! ” My voice sounds monstrous in its rage. I strike the prison that holds my light. It breaks and is thrown everywhere. It feels cold against my skin. The lights dance and play in the water. The water returned to its shape, and I saw something looking back at me. It is covered in light and flame and is so beautiful. “Me. I’m the light.” I saw it now, but not before. Why? I must make more. I tell the light within me to grow. It grows brighter, and the flames reach out around me. The surface I stand on- I can see it now. It is all so grey. No light of color of its own. “I will give you light. Bathe you in my splendor of colors and warmth.” I say aloud. I sound like Father. The water is clean. I bathe in it. I wash away the soil and blood on my feet, chest, and arms. My back hurts. I didn’t know what pain was before I came here. I feel dried blood on my back and swim in the water. It washes my wounds, and now the water is red and filthy. I don’t know why, but this makes me feel sad. I wish I had someone here. # # # # I had a family. We used to sing with the stars and lead the galaxies in a chorus. We sang for Father. Then he found something. Something more than us. Told us to kneel before it. To serve. I remember feeling worried for Father. He said his new love will be in His image. They will have the freedom to choose their love and prove themselves. “What if they don’t love you?” I remember asking, “What if they aren’t worthy?” Father grew angry. I wasn’t like the others in my family. I was the only one allowed to talk to him directly. I was the only one to ask questions. He explained that if they didn’t love him and worship him, then they were forfeit. He would make their lives short, and if they still loved him at the end, they could return to his house, and we would serve them there. “Why must we serve these things for you?” I screamed back, “Why isn’t our love enough?!” I feel now what I felt then- Wrath. Why were we to be lower than his new creations? Suddenly, the flame and light burst around me. I blew away the rocks that cut my feet, boiled the water that cleansed me, and chased all the shadows away. His house was burned, too. “I don’t sing with the stars for Him!” I cried. Before I knew it, I was charging. He never faced me. Instead, he sent the Host to dispatch me. We battled for eons. Finally, after the death and destruction, I surrendered. I bent low to Father and the rest of the Host while the others fled. # # # # The waters that were boiled away by my rage were replenished with my tears. I remember now. The pain. The loss as I was stripped of my place by Father’s side. “Who...who are you?” A tiny voice said. I never knew fear except the fear I had of my Father. I yelped in surprise. There, on the shore of my lake of tears, sat a small figure. It was an ugly thing. Its skin looked like the color of pale clay, its eyes were big and as black as the universe, and it was portly. “Where did you come from?” I said calmly. At least I wasn’t alone. “You, I think. Your blood, the dirt of this place, and the water from your eyes.” The creature said, unsure if the answer was totally correct. “Me?” I said in return. Only Father had the power to create life. He was the engineer of all things. I was somewhat skeptical and feared this may be a ruse. “How could I have created something like you?” “You desired me. You wanted to not be alone, and you wanted to hurt someone for the pain they caused you.” The tiny creature replied. “I was born of your flesh, and here I am. I am yours to command.” The creature stood up shakily on its two legs. I saw that this thing was a strange combination of animals Father had made on some of the planets in the universe. He had hooves, claws, and the tail of a lion. It had genitals that moved like limbs and sharp, yellow teeth. His head was adorned with a crown of horns. Each one was gnarled and twisted. It stood before me, panting, awaiting my command. “What shall you call me, sire?” The creature asked expectantly. When you name something, you gain power over that thing. This was something Father explained. If you name something and it becomes a force onto itself, then that name can also empower it. I had to choose wisely and give it a name worthy of its station. “I shall name you Satan.” I finally said. “Satan, you will serve me as my first servant and therefore shall rule all others. “Yes, my King.” The thing said with a graceful bow. “Now let us see what other wonders exist in the place,” I said as I began to walk again. # # # # Eons passed, and I decided to make a home for myself. I was not harmed by the elements here, but Satan suffered from the constant changes in temperature and lack of shelter. I built a castle that reached far up into the darkness above us. I was the only light in this place, and I wanted to use this as a chance to see if there was an end to the abyss above. Every day, I washed myself in my salty tears and tried to cleanse my injuries. The wounds on my back never fully healed- the blood that oozed from them gave life and power to this place. Lakes gave birth to new creatures, some of which hungered and fed on the others. Some were intelligent and joined Satan in serving me. One day, I was surprised to find that one of the creatures that had been born from the mountains had manifested a weapon during its birth. The demon, whom I called Mundus, broke from his rocky womb with a knife in his hand. Angels fought with such weapons to keep cosmic horrors away from Father’s kingdom. This knife was simple but powerful. “Where did you find such a treasure?” I asked Mundus. “They gave it to me, my lord.” He replied as he offered it to me. Upon touching the artifact, I was awash with a memory of a bipedal creature slaying another of its kind with a similar blade. I felt this human’s hunger for power, his envy of his brother, and his rage at not being good enough in Father’s eyes. This was the creation Father wanted me to serve. The blade grew hot in my hand and increased in length as my rage infused with it. “These petty, stupid, and weak things were to be my master, Father?!” I spat on the blade, and flames burst to life on the iron. “Yet, how did such a weak abomination pass this blade onto you?” As if reaching into memory, Mundus considered the question. I looked to Satan, who salivated at the blade in my hands. Then, the answer tore itself from me like my wings were torn from my back. Wings. I had wings once. The pain from this realization stung as much as my crippling. This weapon is the desires of those beings that Father created. All the hate and anger forged this weapon. As a reminder of my sins, perhaps? “No,” I growled as I threw the weapon to the ground. Mundus and Satan immediately began to wrestle over possession of the trinket. “this cursed item is just another failure in this experiment of his.” Upon seeing the servants near to slaying one another over the flaming blade, I was disgusted that they were also twisted images of those things above. They were manifestations of their greed, anger, and hunger. Nothing more. Except that Father wasn’t in control of these mortal beings. I was, however, in command of these demons. “Enough!” I said, onto the bickering duo. I reached down and snatched up the blade, scattering the devils in my wake, and admired the blade anew. “We will make use of this, somehow.” # # # # I looked into the blazing iron blade in my hand but didn’t see the bauble I held. I swam in my memories of the day they took my wings from me. They scarred my perfect form and threw my crippled body into this pit. The pain of the searing, hot blade stung me again. They took me from the palace and locked me away. They didn’t realize that my essence was more than a few feathers. I have been given a flame of creation, blessed with light and knowledge. No other celestial creation is as close to Father as I. I won’t be his undoing, however. His own creations will. They possess endless greed and hunger and desire to be more like their Father, and it is that hubris that will be His end. Soon, fallen angels joined my ranks. They came with stories about Father’s new mortal flock and how Father tasked my kin with guiding them and inspiring them. The fallen raged at the arrogance of these primates as they ignored them. Mocked them. They chose their petty rivalries, pursuit of pleasure, and accumulation of resources. We laughed heartily at the efficiency with which they destroyed themselves. My fallen angels inspired me with their talk of guiding these small beings. If angels can herd them into Father’s home, then they can also be guided here. It was easier than I thought, and the results were amazing. They burned each other at the stake at the mere mention of evil being among them. They trampled over each other in search of this “Devil.” They devised ways of torture that would make my own Devils proud. # # # # For centuries in their time, I watched humans descend into my kingdom. My imps, demons, and Devils gathered them up and tormented them. The pain these souls experienced sustained their tormentors and empowered them over time. Sadly, some of my own children rose up against me. They were my offspring and armed with the droppings of human inspiration. They also learned the names of my legions, their generals, and custodians of the lands I gave to the most worthy of my flock. Satan, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Mundus, and so many more. They blamed us for their downfall, for their suffering and pain, and that, in turn, gave us strength. As I surveyed my kingdom, I found a soul lying among the freshly fallen. It was the first soul who did not cry or beg for forgiveness. A human female, I think. They all look alike to me. She was the first being who looked like she felt at home in my most wretched kingdom. “Why do you not cry out,” I said. The soul turned to me, and I was shocked to see she was not afraid. “I suppose this is what happens to people like me,” she replied, “at least according to the great state of Florida, anyway.” “I do not know of such a place,” I said with a shrug. “how is it you became damned?” “I’m here because I murdered my husband.” She replied cooly. “I knew if I didn’t kill him, he would eventually beat me to death and then hurt my baby.” “I don’t think that qualifies as a reason for you to be here,” I said, somewhat confused. “Well, according to the Jury of my so-called peers,” she said with a sneer, “I planned to murder him and run away with our child.” “Did you plan it?” I asked. “Only in the sense that I had thought of killing him every day we were married.” If a soul could spit, it would have done so in that moment, “I just couldn’t stand the thought of him hurting my little girl.” “So your human laws condemned you to this place?” I asked. “They don’t have that power. How did they achieve this feat?” “They didn’t. I was condemned, according to the judge, for breaking God’s commandment,” the soul looked around, surveying my kingdom, “I guess there’s no wiggle room for Him.” “He is rather insufferable that way,” I said. Suddenly, I was overcome with a feeling I had never experienced toward anyone before- pity. If this place had never existed, she would never have been condemned to it. If I didn’t use their misery and turned their weapons against them, this soul wouldn’t have to suffer needlessly. I only meant to hurt Father, and I genuinely believe these creatures deserve my wrath as well. Not this one, though. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I would never have you in my home if it were up to me.” “I forgive you.” the soul replied. Her words struck me harder than any flaming sword ever could. I had longed to hear those words uttered since being cast out. “Is it always dark in Hell?” “Is that what you humans call this place? It is a good name, I suppose. It never occurred to me to give it a name.” I replied. I looked around the wastes of my home. I hadn’t realized that it was indeed black as pitch in much of my kingdom. “Maybe it could do with a little light. Would you mind coming with me? I could use the company.” “I guess it’s better than being tortured by them.” She said, pointing to my demons, who went about throwing the newly fallen souls into a pit of their own offspring. With a nod, I took the soul with me and rose on high. I was indeed weary of commanding these fiends, of torturing the human souls, and began to ponder what it would be like to walk among them. The soul and I flew higher and higher to see if there was a way to be free of this place. As I flew, I suddenly realized I was doing so without wings. My light and fire grew more intense as I remembered who I was before being sundered. # # # # Down below, in the pits and halls of the wasted kingdom, demons and devils alike screamed in confusion at the birth of a new light above them. With eyes unaccustomed to light, the damned wept at this new pain and fear. The fallen angels who commanded their legions fell to their knees in remembrance of this newborn star. Lucifer The Morningstar, the brightest of them all, ascended. Those broken angels cheered as the legions scrambled and fell onto their knees in supplication. Then, just as quickly as the light flared in that pitch-black sky, it disappeared with a wink. Every soul, demon, devil, and fallen angel collectively screamed out in horror. Their king left them to their own devices, with a brief glimpse of Lucifer’s light, and they were once again plunged into chaos and fury.


“Did you hear about Senator Wickam’s wife?” I turn toward the voice to find a woman I don’t know who’s apparently talking to me. Though I have no clue who she is, I know something about her because she’s wearing a red tube dress at a charity gala. Which tells me she’s not especially charitable. She’s only here to show off her gym-toned body and the breasts her husband is probably still paying for. She blinks and takes a half-step back. Her eyebrows would’ve shot up if there wasn’t so much filler in her forehead. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else,” she says. It pains me to smile at that, but I do it anyway. I’m intrigued now. “No, please,” I insist. “I’d love to know what you heard.” She hesitates and finally seems to decide it’s okay to gossip with a stranger. “Well.” She glances around to see who’s within earshot. If only she knew. “Nancy Gardner--do you know her? She’s Robert Baldwin’s stepdaughter. Anyway, Nancy just told me that she has herpes. Said she’s wearing a ton of makeup to cover up the...you know.” The woman waves vaguely at her own bee-sting-puffy lips. “The breakout. ” “Really. The senator’s wife?” Red Dress Lady nods, wide-eyed. “Nancy says she must’ve given it to her husband. Her mother’s best friend’s niece saw the senator at one of those dreadfully dirty little clinics on the south side the other day.” That reminds me of a line from Spaceballs , and I swig some of the champagne I’ve been absently holding to stop a giggle. Giggling simply isn’t done at these things, darling. “How awful,” I commiserate. “Isn’t it? After all, men are supposed to be the pigs.” She laughs with a nervous edge, as if she’s just remembered she isn’t talking to whoever she mistook me for. She scans the politely mingling crowds. “Oh, there’s Marabeth,” she says, her gaze focused on no one in particular. “I’d better go speak to her about our luncheon this week. Have a lovely evening.” She skitters off before I can wish her the same. Her red dress vanishes somewhere toward the stage where the droning keynote speaker has already come and gone. I’ve forgotten everything about him, as I’m sure most people here have. Senator Wickam’s short, animated speech before the keynote was far more engaging. His impassioned plea to help tonight’s spotlighted charity had nearly all the women here whipping out their proverbial checkbooks on the spot, or demanding their husband’s. The fact that he looked like a cover model had only highlighted his power of persuasion. Funnily enough, he didn’t mention his wife giving him herpes. I decide to investigate this rumor further. Unfortunately, I don’t know very many of the people at this ultra-fancy shindig. I really should attend things like this more often. Rub elbows and all that. The problem is that I’m not invited to many “work functions.” However, I’ve done my homework. Or at least as much as possible from the comfort of the internet. I know, for example, that it’s too risky for me to discuss this topic directly with Nancy Gardner, but her frenemy Lillian Vail is a safe bet. I spot Lillian by the chocolate fountain, talking to an older couple. She’s wearing a seafoam-green dress with gold spangles and an asymmetrical skirt that balances the single long sleeve on top with the other shoulder bared. Not exactly classic fashion, but still far more tasteful than that other woman’s screaming red sausage casing. Lillian lifts an eyebrow when she notices me approaching. I can see her struggling to place me as a polite but faint smile arranges itself on her glossy lips. I’ve only met her once before. At the time, I could tell it wasn’t particularly memorable for her. Maybe she simply thinks I work for the charity, and she’s preparing to tell me that she gave at the office. The couple she’s chatting with realizes her attention has been slightly diverted. They follow her gaze, and I squirm inwardly as I recognize the older woman. Her name is Hazel something-or-other, and she writes an entertainment column for the Tribune . I really don’t want her attention tonight. Fortunately, it turns out Lillian doesn’t either. As Hazel squints through her glasses at me, the green-garbed socialite takes a big step away from the journalist and the man I assume is her husband. Lillian flashes a patently false apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but I really must talk to my friend here,” she tells the couple. “I’ve been waiting for her to arrive all night. Toodles!” Such a bold lie. One she clearly doesn’t care whether she’s caught in. “Hello, darling.” Lillian greets me with exuberance, slings her sleeved arm around my shoulders, and steers me away from the couple. After we’ve passed a few small groups and we’re out of earshot, she lowers her arm and huffs a short breath. “You can’t even properly call that woman paparazzi. Insidious old bat,” she mutters, then smiles at me. “How are you, Charlotte?” I blink slowly, surprised she remembers my name. “Bored out of my mind,” I reply--an expected sentiment that gets an expected chuckle. “You know Nancy Gardner, don’t you?” The flash of a feral expression before she smooths out her features tells me she’s the right person to ask about the rumor. She’ll give me the ugly truth. Since I need no further confirmation, I go ahead with my opening conversational gambit. “Apparently, she’s telling people that the senator’s wife has herpes.” Lillian stares at me. One corner of her mouth tilts up a fraction. “Is she, now?” “That’s the rumor.” A snort strangles itself in her throat. “Nancy Gardner wants to sleep her way to the White House.” Lillian directs her intense gaze across the room. I follow it to find not Nancy the White House Tramp but Senator Wickam himself. The stunning blonde woman beside him wears a little black dress and too much makeup. His hand rests with a proprietary firmness at the top of her ass. A white-coated waiter stops before them with a tray of bacon-wrapped scallop bites on cocktail toothpicks with colorful pops of ribbon on the ends. The blonde snags one and playfully wiggles it. After a quick remark we can’t hear, he opens his mouth, and she feeds him the hors d’oeuvre. They seem far too in love for Nancy Gardner to come between them. With or without herpes. Lillian rolls her eyes. “Anyway,” she says. “Apparently, Rosalia Shaw told Robert Baldwin that she saw...” She pauses to steal another glance at the couple across the room. “The senator’s wife banging their groundskeeper in the greenhouse. And since Nancy has the IQ of a raw steak, she translated ‘potential affair’ into ‘venereal disease.’” The look she’s giving me is both apologetic and curious. She’s well-bred enough to know how tactless this conversation is, but at the same time, she’s wondering if I have anything to add to the rumor mill. Especially considering she’s aware that I must know the Shaws. What she’s told me is interesting and potentially useful. I feel that I have a social obligation to offer something in return, but I need to be careful. Nancy Gardner is not the only one who has plans for the senator. Finally, I offer a sweet smile and tell her, “I happen to know that the Wickams don’t even have a groundskeeper.” She roars with laughter, and I manage to join in. After she calms down, she places a slender hand on my arm. Her skin is ice-cold. “Can I get you a top-up?” she asks, nodding to the barely-touched champagne glass I’m still holding. I frown at the fizzing liquid. “Thank you, no,” I tell her as I scan the crowds for someone in particular. There’s one more step in this rumor chain I want to hunt down before I make my move. “Speaking of Rosaria, have you seen...ah, there. Will you excuse me, Lillian?” She nods. “Of course. Lovely to see you, Charlotte.” I return the sentiment and head for the open bar, which is the first place I should have looked for the Shaw in question. Who doesn’t even notice me when I’m standing right beside him. “Hello, Gregory.” He lifts his head slowly and gives me a bleary blink. There is no sign of Rosalia, which is not unusual. At any given event, she prefers to deposit him near the alcohol and seek the company of absolutely anyone who’s not him. “Charl?” His smile is sloppy but genuine. I have to ignore the ache at seeing him in such a state. He knows he’s an alcoholic, and he wants help to break the addiction, but Rosalia won’t let him join AA or speak to a therapist. She insists that it would be embarrassing if people knew her husband needed that kind of ‘girly help.’ I’d hoped he wouldn’t be this trashed yet. He may not be able to fill in the missing rumor chain link, after all. But I’ll ask him anyway. And I need to ask him quickly, because the senator has just spotted me talking to his neighbor and best friend, and he’s headed this way to intercept. * * * Long after the gala ends, I let myself into my darkened, silent home. I’m still thinking about the sandwich-board chalk sign I passed on the way out, thanking the biggest donors to the Consortium Against Domestic Abuse. How the charming, handsome Senator Wickham’s name topped the list. I needed to see that happen. To hear him speak with such ardor and conviction on the topic, to watch him throw so much money into the cause. It cemented my plans. Now I know I can do something about my...situation. My feet ache, and my clutch purse is heavier than usual. I want nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for as long as possible, but there’s something I need to do first. Because I did manage to track down the source of the rumor--Gregory Shaw told me everything about Rosalia and the ‘groundskeeper’ thing. So instead of plodding upstairs to the bedroom, I head for the living room. I see it right away. The shape in the wingback chair beside the fireplace. The long, trailing shadow propped next to it. In spite of my churning stomach, a smile appears on my face. “Jack,” I call meekly. He doesn’t stand. Not at first. Instead, he speaks without moving. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what time it is. Are you going to bother making up an excuse?” I don’t reply. I’m busy mentally going over everything I still have to do. After what I heard at the gala, what I saw, I feel...empowered. That’s why I don’t even flinch when he shoots from the chair, the long object clutched in his right hand. He’s promising pain with his words, with his movements, with that. But I am not concerned. I’m thinking of makeup and how thickly it must be applied to the face to cover bruises. I’m thinking of a dreadfully dirty little clinic on the south side where the underpaid doctors will accept money in exchange for not reporting evidence of violence to the authorities. I’m thinking of a man who isn’t a groundskeeper, who made the mistake of trying to comfort a woman in pain within sight of his scandal-panicked spouse. I’m thinking of a knock-out blonde in a little black dress...who is not the senator’s wife. “Did you hear me, Charlotte?” I snap to attention, nearly giddy with the realization that Jack Wickam has screamed at me for the last time. And he will never hit me again. “Of course, darling,” I tell him, one hand already inside my heavy clutch purse. “I heard...a rumor. That someone in this house was going to learn a lesson tonight.” There’s a savage gleam in his eyes as he taps the end of his weapon in a palm. Softly, softly. “Wouldn’t you know it?” I continue when he says nothing. “For once, the rumor is true. And it’s a very important lesson, isn’t it, Jack?” “Oh, yes,” he says in a dangerous purr. As if he’s enjoying my apparent acceptance of my fate. “Too bad you won’t be able to put it into practice after you’ve learned it, Senator. The learning itself precludes it.” My mad grin eclipses his rage as a sliver of confusion eases into his eyes. I bring forth the heavy object in my purse. The ‘excuse’ that made me so late returning from the gala. “Tonight’s lesson is that you should never bring a baseball bat to a gunfight.” The explosive sound of the senator’s wife reclaiming herself rings out through the house, and I hope it wakes Rosalia Shaw next door. She’ll get so much gossip out of this.


“Adem! It looks like we have a problem.” Eugene was sitting with crossed arms in his office chair when Adem arrived at his manager’s desk. He gestured towards the computer screen with a subtle nod. “What is this about, Euge?” Adem suppressed his urge to sigh, but like almost everyone, it seemed Eugene could read him like a book. “I’m sorry, am I keeping you from something important?” “Well, actually-” Adem knew he would not make it to the end of his sentence. Even getting shit on by his boss only felt like acting out an uninspired play at this point. Eugene interrupted him, “Because I could swear I just saw you cracking jokes with the guys when I walked by your desk earlier.” Adem pressed his lips together. The truth was, Sandy and Carl were making fun of his skin, which, according to them, looked more translucent every day. He had attempted to save face by laughing it off as if he were in on the jokes. But he wouldn’t give Eugene the satisfaction of clarifying this misunderstanding. Adem lifted his head. “I got a few calls to make. We got two new orders from PC Whiz and they didn’t clarify the end customer.” With a quick jump-like motion, Eugene uncrossed his arms and grabbed the computer mouse on his desk. “You know, since you brought it up, Adem,” he started frantically scrolling the mouse wheel, “I’m a little concerned. I just checked your daily outbound calls and... Adem.” Eugene loved to throw in Adem’s name as often and as condescendingly as possible, “correct me if I’m wrong, but I remember that we agreed upon a minimum of 20 calls a day.” Somehow Eugene managed to make even his mouse clicks sound unbearably disappointing. “Yet I am reading here that you made only 17 calls today. Adem, I thought we had a deal...” For a brief moment, the image of his doctor’s face swiftly appeared in Adem's head. He didn’t eat and sleep well lately, and it clearly showed during his check-up at the clinic the other day. His boss had the same rehearsed, worried look on his face right now. But unlike Dr. Phelps’, Eugene’s expression provoked an emotional reaction in him. “As I said,” Adem noticed his voice becoming increasingly desperate. “I still have to do a few calls today.” “Uh-huh...” Eugene muttered, while dramatically lifting his left hand, checking his watch. It was late afternoon. Had Adem not been summoned away from his cubicle, he probably would have ended his two calls with PC Whiz and the supplier by now, scoring him a total of 19 calls for the day. For the twentieth, Adem usually called up his mom to let her know he was still hanging in there. He hated doing that after work. But it looked like this cheat was becoming a bit risky, given Eugene’s newfound attention to detail when it came to outbound calls. Management loved to use phone call numbers as some arbitrary indicator for sales performance. Nobody seemed to care that Skype and Zoom, next to email, had become the predominant methods of communication among their tech-oriented business customers. Of course, tracking any communication channels involving anything more modern than a landline would require new infrastructure, new software, new processes... generally things management wasn’t really interested in. At least that was Adem’s impression. For all he was concerned, phone calls remained the ‘key performance indicator’. “So you’re working late today?” Eugene asked with an expectant glance up from his watch. “Yes.” Adem sighed. This time for real. “I’m working late today.” It was already dark when Adem left the office. Like every day, he was parked at the very end of the business center parking lot. It became a habit after a few awkward interactions with coworkers once he started spending lunchtime in his car. Just as he was reaching for the key to his battered Ford Focus, the magical glissando of a harp started sounding from his pocket. The intro to Catherine The Great by The Divine Comedy. Once again, Adem was embarrassingly reminded that he really should change his ringtone. He loved that song, but it wasn’t an ideal ringtone for this particular woman - the only person who called him anymore. Tonight, he wasn’t going to pick up the phone. Instead, he typed a short text message: “I’m okay mom, just very tired. Call you tomorrow. Good night!” The response came only a few seconds later: “I found Nora’s handbag. What should I do with it?” “What handbag?” Adem thought to himself. It didn’t matter. There were about a dozen of Nora’s old handbags collecting dust somewhere in the house. Alongside boxes of coats, shoes, jewelry, even a fully stocked cupboard of Irish breakfast tea which he still had to get rid of somehow. “Keep it.” he texted back and unlocked his car. Once he arrived back home Adem didn’t bother turning on a single light in the house. He liked it better this way. The darkness allowed him to go about his business without seeing the trash bags piling up in the hallway. It also prevented him from seeing all the dust and dirt that had accumulated after months of abandoning his homely duties. And as a bonus, it spared Adem from catching a glimpse of the old pictures on the walls. He’d considered taking them all down for a little while, but he could not bring it over himself. At some point, he contemplated covering the pictures with blankets, but the thought of that made him feel like a sociopath. Granted, living alone in a dark, cluttered mess of a house wouldn’t portray him as a mentally sound individual either. But it seemed like a good compromise. This way, theoretically, all that separated him from living in a relatively normal home was a couple of light switches and window blinds. As Adem dragged himself upstairs, a sudden feeling of dizziness made him freeze up. He hastily reached for the wooden stair railing. Something was off... There was a sudden warmth surrounding him, but not in a comfortable way. It was like the air just got heavy and viscous. Every movement seemed to generate heat and pressure on his skin as if the atmosphere was resisting him. At once, Adem could feel his heart pumping violently and loudly as if it had just started beating for the first time today. Sweat started running down his forehead. “I’m not getting sick, am I?” He thought to himself. “Goddammit, Euge is gonna have a field day with me tomorrow!”. In his head, he could hear Eugene gossiping about him with his coworkers, “I’m sorry guys, you gotta handle Adem’s customers. Little Fight Club called in sick today!” He could see Sandy rolling her eyes, “Again? Wasn’t he at the doctor’s literally two days ago?”, and Carl complaining, “If you ask me that dude’s a lazy fuck. That’s probably why his wife left him too.” In a delirious blur, Adem could suddenly see Nora’s face before his eyes. Smirking at him cheekily. Nora was the one person who never gave up on him. Who always tried to understand and alleviate his pain. But she never let him feel sorry for himself. “Leave the self-pity to those who don’t have a Nora in their life, gummy bear,” she used to say to him. Adem abruptly realized that he had never told the office what really happened to her. But just as he finished this thought, it all went away, only to leave behind a painful feeling of emptiness. The house was eerily silent and dark again. Adem just stood there alertly for a moment, before climbing the last couple of steps. “Maybe one light won’t hurt” he negotiated with himself as he walked through the hallway. In his bedroom, he flipped the switch next to the doorway. A warm light illuminated the room dimly. Apparently, one of the two bulbs had died, causing the lamp to cast uncanny shadows from the ceiling onto the junk-covered furniture and the beige, scruffy carpet. “Alright then. Bedtime it is.” “What the fuck.” When Adem woke up, something was definitely, one hundred percent, very wrong. “What the fuck.” he repeated intuitively before he had even fully opened his eyes. This wasn’t right. It didn’t feel like waking up. More like regaining control after a very strong trip. Adem tried to recall if he had smoked any pot before going to sleep. No, he was sure he didn’t. He sat upright in his bed. Except, it wasn’t actually his bed, it appeared. It certainly wasn’t his bedroom. In fact, there wasn’t a room at all! Somehow, the bed he was sitting on was surrounded only by what seemed like an endless void. The floor looked like his regular bedroom floor. He could make out the familiar discolored spots and stains on the carpet. But the floor did not reach any walls. It extended endlessly, blending with a clean, cloudless, orange-yellowish horizon somewhere far, far out in the distance. The ceiling was gone. So were all the walls and furniture. There was no obvious source of light, yet it was almost blindingly bright. Adem’s eyes hurt from the abrupt change, adjusting only slowly to the new ambiance. His body felt weak and shaky while he touched the fuzzy carpet with his toes, and as he stood up he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Adem.” He turned around back towards the bed. Standing on the other side - was Nora. Immediately, an unfathomable amount of time passed. Or no time at all. It was impossible to tell. At some point, Adem must have fallen onto his knees. At some point, he must have started crying uncontrollably. But when was that? The tears had already started to dry up and were dripping cold from his chin when he first noticed them. She was still standing there. But not really. How could she? Smiling gently, Nora walked around the bed towards Adem. Right in front of him, she joined him on the carpet floor. Kneeling, she reached for his hands. She held them with a soft grip and looked deep into his dark eyes. “I am dreaming?” Adem whispered. He couldn’t tell for sure if he was really saying anything, but Nora seemed to understand him. She smiled. “Maybe.” “I... I missed you so much,” he said in a jittery voice. “Where have you been all this time?” He gasped. Every spoken word felt like it sucked all the oxygen out of his lungs. Nora laughed one of her silent, wispy laughs. “Well... Right here, gummy bear.” Adem smiled back at her. Then they hugged each other, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Adem was happy.


Two hundred and eighty-six feet above the forest floor, Tavaaris dangled from a rope. The leather of his harness creaked gently as it held him, and the Old Steel used to fashion the hardpoints had never been known to fail. All that being said, Tavaaris hated heights. He continued to mutter prayers to his forebears as he tried to muster the resolve to continue up the corpse he was scaling, anxiously rubbing one of the many charms between thumb and forefinger he had tied to himself. Tavaaris’ world was a new one. His people had come forth from ancient crypts, facing a sky ablaze and frozen lakes, corpse-strewn forests and shattered mountains. The wisewomen had claimed that as Tavaaris’ people had been born, so too had the planet, though the world’s birth was a difficult one, wreathed in flame and death. His people hid below while the heavens wailed and gnashed. Very few survived this period, or so he was told. But that was long ago. The world now enjoyed skies of purest white, and the air smelled sweet, although no sound made it this far up - save the furious beat of his heart in his chest, as he tried to calm his frayed nerves. He inhaled, focused on the silence, and closed his eyes a moment, letting go of the charm and steeling himself. Staying here wasted valuable time, so he gripped the rope and resumed his ascent. His village regularly sent out explorers and treasure-seekers to map the world and bring back valuable objects - Like the Old Steel of his harness - which is how he found himself this far up in the air in the first place. It’s known that many objects of interest can be found in places strange and common, but the truly spectacular finds always came from the world-corpse; ancient, rotting remains of a man the size of a mountain, wrought entirely from Old Steel, and located in the center of some of the most treacherous terrain the world offered, among mountains torn in half and boiling lakes of poison. It was not a journey for the faint of heart, and this was Tavaaris’ second time here; not enough to shake the feeling of anxiety that came with every few feet he ascended. The world-corpse was a functional mountain edifice; sheer cliffs going up hundreds of feet, ecosystems and floral biomes occurring within and without of the steel. Trees blossomed on the exterior, vines crept along limbs larger than can be imagined. It was unclear to Tavaaris if the creature had ever lived, or if it was a monument of some kind. He did know that nothing lived near here aside from plants - not a single creature called the miles surrounding the world-corpse its home. The approach to the corpse was both near-fatal from the hazards, and funereal in silence. Up and up his ascent took him. The entrance to the world-corpses’ innards took place through a shattered glass plate about 500 feet off the ground. The hole itself was three times again Tavaaris’ height, and the opening was practically a needle-hole, relative to the scale of the world-corpse itself. His people had tried to create easier entrances on some of their expeditions here over the many years of journeys, but the Old Steel had never acquiesced to the insistence of their cutting or bashing tools. As he ascended, Tavaaris ruminated on his extreme fortune; He had never been particularly good with contributing to his tribe in the capacity of a community leader or organizer, and he had little interest in family. All told, the fact he could grow his people’s prosperity via clever use of bow, his eyes, and courage beat exile any day of the week. He pulled himself into the cavernous hall atop the world-corpse. Even after hundreds of years, nature still did not dare to intrude. The smallest of lichens and thinnest vines had crept up the colossal body and could be seen tiptoeing - or the plantlife equivalent - into the interior. Shattered glass, torn steel, and the endless colored thin serpentine shapes bursting from the walls in repose defined the room. Old Steel made plants flee at its presence. There are few things darker - and more terrifying - than the inky black of the inside of a cavern, and the world-corpses’ innards were no different. He squatted down in the hall, removing his pack, and retrieving the components of a torch; wooden handle, expendable cloth, jar of oil, and flintstone. Seconds later, the room blossomed into a comforting orange light. The features of the room hidden in shadow crept into view; jagged columns of Old Steel, short and square. The remains of a few camps that had once been set up here, now rotted into uselessness. The ceiling remained out of view, being about 5 times taller than Tavaaris was, he recalled from his previous trip. His anxiety ratcheting down, the perception of scent came to him slowly; the specific smell of the world-corpse could not be mistaken: Dust, earth, petrichor, oil and metal, and something else. Not blood, not food, not someone from his tribe, but something acrid and sweet and poisonous. It was here the last time he ascended the world-corpse, and it didn’t bring him harm then. He let it fade into the background of his perception. The inside of the world-corpse existed outside of time, outside of the necessary rhythmic cycle of Ta rise and Ta fall, of sleep and shared meals and working. Minutes could be hours, hours could be seconds, and he found it critical to make time to assess the needs of his body in the moments of quiet between ascent and descent down the corpse’s spine, or pulling unfamiliar artifacts from its blackened bowels, rooms the size of a generation house in his village. He started to make camp. The throat of the corpse laid at the back of the vast hall he was in, a vast vertical tunnel that he had never seen the bottom of, about seven times his height in diameter by his estimation. It was from this central shaft he had previously accessed the manifold rooms on his previous excursion, and it was down this column he intended to descend once more to pull more valuable finds for his people; useful shards of Old Steel or other exotic materials for weapons or to protect the village from storms. Sometimes he would find whole tools, such as the fire-blade he discovered last time, with a short, narrow blue flame out of a tin neck that was hotter that any fire he had made or had heard of. Slabs or bricks of Old Steel enchanted to repulse metal from it were everywhere in the World Corpse, but due to their weight, he could only bring back one or two per excursion. He was offered a tidy sum for each, though. He settled into the small camp he had built, lit by a now-sputtering torch, and prepared to rest in preparation for his journey into the poisonous, stygian innards of the world-corpse. Tired from his trip up, sleep quickly approached. His last thought before drifting off occurred too late to keep him awake with its implications; exhaustion muting the question under a blanket of sleep.


#Welcome to Micro Monday! Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Song: ** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts): The color red plays a meaningful role in the story.** This week’s challenge is to use the above song as inspiration for your story. You may use the song itself, the video, , or the title. The interpretation is completely up to you as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. **Note: Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) next Monday before the deadline! You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings There weren’t enough stories for a ranking set from the last post, but great job to u/PolarisStorm and u/FyeNite for taking on the Holiday Challenge! *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Detective Matthews sat across from me at an old table in the dingy hotel room we'd been calling home for the last two weeks. A tasteless, faded painting of a farmhouse, three half-finished cups of coffee, and an overflowing ashtray provided the place with a depressing ambience that suited our grim task. We were here because Matthews had noticed a pattern in the killer's victims - most of them had ties to this part of the city. Either they were raised here, they worked here, or maybe they just visited the diner on the corner every week or two. It was our hope that by stationing plain-clothes law enforcement officials discretely throughout the area, we would be able to catch the Mutilator stalking a would-be victim. This was our best lead in a long time. Many of the victims' connections to this place were so tangential that it was a miracle anyone saw the pattern. Even with the FBI's help, we had next to nothing on this sick psychopath. In three dark years of brutal killings, all we knew was that he targeted government employees and law enforcement, always men, always with good careers and impressive accomplishments. This wasn't your average serial killer - there was no indication that he used his victims to assuage some depraved sexual urge. No calling card, no common element to the crime scenes beyond the horrible mutilations that earned him his moniker. The FBI's psych guys thought we were dealing with an anarchist or someone who was wronged by the government, either in perception or reality, in some terrible way. Someone who had dedicated his entire existence to destroying what people like me and my partner were trying to preserve. Our shift was over for the day, and we had 6 hours to get what rest we could before resuming the hunt. Uninterested in sleep, I turned on the television to watch the news. My heart skipped a beat when the reporter announced that another victim of the Mutilator had been discovered. The body's condition was more grotesque than I had ever seen previously. The man's head was smashed into a pulp, his lower jaw entirely absent, burns and deep lacerations covering the majority of his body. Hearing the reporter announce that the victim, identified by the contents of his wallet, was Detective John Patterson was the most surreal moment of my life. If I had any thought that I'd misheard, my doubts were dispelled when a picture of me, proudly smiling in my uniform showed on the screen and my career accomplishments were enumerated. Matthews still sat across from me, silent, where I left him after I caught him by surprise and slit his throat not half an hour earlier. I heard frantic knocking and shouting at the door. My colleagues, doubtless come to check on my partner and ensure his safety, would be breaking their way in at any moment. No matter, I had already ensured that I could slip through the door connecting this room to the next and make my exit unnoticed. Matthews was too close to figuring out who I was, closer than anyone in three years. I cannot respect a servant of the government, but as an adversary he had proved worthy. No one will come that close again. Note: this was originally a response to a writing prompt that I wrote yesterday, but I posted it too late for it to receive any attention.


Rambo, a wild-eyed kid in his late twenties stands facing the horizon. To his left stands a stern-faced fifty-year-old named Octavius, still donning his signature jet black hair even in his advanced age. Both dapper in their fitting, yet nondescript suits, they are smoking cigarettes, looking out at the sunrise. Octavius, just because he’s trying to keep the time. Rambo, because he is genuinely in awe. "You know, I'm as atheist as fuck,” Rambo says, “but it's shit like this that makes me believe maybe there is a god. Like he painted this shit just for me." "Sounds like a bunch of bullshit,” Octavius complains his mind still occupied by staying on schedule. “Well, what else could it be? How does somethin’ that beautiful happen by accident?” Rambo says pointing to the sky as if it could speak and testify on his behalf. "Years of evolution,” Octavius just says. “It probably has somethin’ to do with fuckin’. Everything does.” “Where do you get this shit?" Rambo laughs, putting out his cigarette. “Books,” Octavius cocks his gun. "it's a good thing, you young bucks should try it and stay off that damned Netflix." They both get in the car. A small, unassuming Ford. Any nobody could be driving it. Octavius takes the wheel. Rambo at his side, they drive off. "Ok, what's the job today?" says Octavius, already getting down to business. "Some woman in the upper east side," says the younger one, showing a photo of a Brunette in scrubs. "This is her picture." Rambo catches himself looking at the woman a little too long. Octavius continues driving. But notices in his periphery. At first, he says it with a smile, "Don't think about it." "About what?" "About catchin' feels for the target. I know how that ends." "Really. how does it end?" "With one of us looking up soulfully at the moon and the other in a body bag." He snatches the picture from Rambo, serious now. "For real. I thought this would go without saying, but love and contract killin’ don't mix." "What? I'm in love now? I was just staring at the picture a little while. Wanted to make sure I got the face right." "Sure," "What? You don't believe me?" "Fine," Octavius says, "let's do a walk thru." "She's a part time nurse working her way through school. likes Thai food, poetry, and old Star Trek reruns. Smart as fuck. Been on the dean's list every year. But she’s coming off a bad divorce." "On the rebound, that means her poonanny is ripe for the picking huh?" Rambo gives a disapproving look. "Sorry,” Octavius laughs. “go ahead tell me what's her schedule like." This question gives Rambo pause. "Why I gotta tell you her schedule? The fuck that gotta do with anything?" "Because it's important so we can know the optimal time to kill her ass. You know? Less witnesses, know the location, maybe there's a pizzeria nearby. I get hungry after a kill." Rambo continues reluctantly, "She’s pretty busy. She has class Mondays through Thursdays. Works. double shift on Fridays and Saturdays but has every other Saturday off so she can--" And that's the moment. Rambo hesitates for just a split second and Octavius knows. The elder shakes his head with a knowing smile. "Come on, Rambo, don't leave the world in suspense. So she can what?" Realizing defeat, Rambo admits, "So she can be with her son on visitation days." Octavius wraps the steering column in victory, "Badda bingo!" They're nearing their destination. "Look," he goes on, "we can't kill her at a school or a hospital. There are cops all over the place. If we get her, we get her at her home and yes there's a possibility her son will find her dead body in the living room. There'll be blood everywhere, a violin playin like somethin' out of a Disney movie." He turns to Rambo with serious eyes, "If she doesn't die, she testifies against the boss and he’s goin’ down and both you and me are gonna start getting fitted for pine boxes so I gotta know if you're gonna freeze because frankly I don't give a shit about you but I'm kind of fond of my ass." “So I gotta know,” Octavius concludes, raising those black eyebrows inquisitively, “Is this gonna be a problem?” .... BANG! Rambo pulls the trigger and the bullet flies from the chamber on a predetermined path unable to be pulled back in. He watches as the ball of metal rips right through the young girl's cranium, tearing away flesh and turning a once walking, breathing human being into a lifeless clump on the floor. Octavius looks on, impressed. "Now, was that so hard?" He goes toward the kitchen as if he didn’t just witness a woman being murdered. "I wonder if this broad keeps beer in the house." Octavius's words are mere echoes in the background. Rambo hangs over his victim. Her eyes frozen on the final frame of her life -- pure terror written in her pupils. Rambo remembers his mother, finding her dead and what that did to him. How he burned to find the man who did it. How a younger Octavius helped him exact revenge. Now, he finds himself squarely on the other side of that equation. He looks toward the kitchen with pleading eyes as if Octavius has a magic wand to turn back the clock of time -- as if there is a solution to this dilemma of the soul. But Octavius merely strolls in slurping on a bottle of vodka. "I'm impressed," he says, "this broad knows how to drink." But right before reaching the living room, he pauses, slightly taken aback. Rambo panics, realizing that his mentor has seen the worry in his eyes. A look, Rambo knows, that doesn't belong in the eyes of a contract killer. But soon Rambo realizes Octavius is not looking him but over his shoulder. "What did I tell you?" Octavius smiles as Rambo hears sobbing. He looks over his shoulder to see a young brown-haired boy hanging over his mother's dead body, crying. "Just like Bambi,” the cold-hearted Octavius beams. "Oh well," he goes over and pats the young boy on the head, "guess we gotta clean up." He aims his gun at the boy's head. There's no hesitation. He pulls back the trigger. "Wait!" yells Rambo. Octavius rolls his eyes, realizing that Rambo has interrupted him again. "What now?" "Nothing," Rambo says coldly. "I want to be the one to do it." Octavius is getting impatient. "You sure about this?" His resolve is steadfast, "Never been more sure in my life." "Fine," Octavio says. "be my guest." Rambo knows the road it leads to, but still he aims the gun and fires. It rips through the heart and blood explodes everywhere. When the dust has settled, Octavius lays on the ground clinging for life. "You ungrateful son of a bitch!" Rambo finishes him off with a killshot through the head. "Come with me," says to the boy. His tone is decisive but in truth he has no idea what he will do. .... As they ride to an unknown destination, vast roads in front of them silence pervades the entire trip. Droplets of sweat are forming all over Rambo's body. Finally, from boredom, the child asks the obvious question, "Where are you taking me?" Rambo gives the obvious answer, "I don't know." The child wrinkles his brow as much a child can wrinkle it and then asks the main question on his mind, "Did that other man kill my mother?" Lying is in a contract killer's nature. It comes natural to them, but there is something about coming face to face with your past that shatters a man. Rambo approximates the truth with, "He was sent by another man to kill your mother." "Who is he?" the boy asks. "Jules Espicito," Rambo confesses, because it feels good telling a full truth to the boy once and for all. But then Rambo realizes the boy is stirring. He is thinking and Rambo knows how this ends. The boy looks at Rambo's gun and says the words he himself said long ago, "Can we kill him?" Rambo remembers this: the insatiable lust for vengeance. Key word insatiable. "Well," Rambo says to the boy, "why would you wanna do that?" "He killed my mom," the boy says and in that instant Rambo knows what he must do. "We'll kill him together," he says. The rest of the trip is a fog. They arrive at midnight and are in the middle of what might as well be nowhere. He walks the kid to a lake. "Are you sure he's here?" the boy says. "The person who killed your mother is here, yes," Rambo says, going into his pocket for the gun. Killing the kid, after all, is for the best. He knows the road of vengeance, after all. It's a very long road. A road that leads to nowhere and goes on forever, growing with each kill. He reaches for the gun before realizing it's not there. At that point, all he can do is stand there and laugh in this Eureka kind of moment and say, "Kid's smart like his mom." The bullet blasts through Rambo's brain and his body plops to the ground. The boy, holding the gun, looks down at the clump of flesh. The satisfaction lasts for an instant. He looks at the moon reflecting off the lake and loves what he sees. He sees the next kill. He sees Esposito. One more , he tells himself. Just one more.


It wasn’t the way he moved his wrists. No, that was always elegantly trashy and it turned me on. It also wasn’t the way he would never take off his long, black socks; he was afraid that his feet smelled. I found all of his irritating habits to be endearing after I have my coffee. It couldn’t have been the way he danced in his dog-bitten-hole-in-front-of-his-dick-pouch underwear in the morning to Bowie, singing into my blue toothbrush. Maybe it was the way he would make love to me. Pushing himself against me and pounding away like a jackhammer, rolling over and falling asleep. I would run my aching hands between his soft chest hair and wonder what stars taste like in my mouth. I loved all of it. I remember the hours lost underneath the sheets, sunlight dancing between our pirouetted fingers. The texture of his redone tattoos against my exploring hands. Our tiny nightstand we stole from a dumpster at 3am. He sanded it down with utmost precision and detail and I wildly sprayed it black and the drawer red (now the red will have flecked off). Or the smell of coffee I had every morning to wake up to. So strong. I know what it is. The moment that shattered us. That scattered our lengthy dreams and quiet hopes. I came home and shook off the rain from my black umbrella. I shucked off my shoes and ran to get out of my dripping clothes. I noticed it. No, it wasn’t his cock in someone else’s body. It wasn’t even another lover. It was just his green, matted, wet towel lying on top of our bed.


"You're not losing your mind, it's being stolen." "I'm sorry, what? Who's this?" A terrible night out, some shitty-ass drugs, and a weird phone call. At least Giles now had an explanation for the weird flashing images he'd been seeing. "I'm Leyla. I'm with the government. We've been following--" "Hey, no man. Leave me out of this. I didn't do nothing." "We don't care about the drugs. Something worse is happening. More importantly, your life is in danger. You've been seeing clear visions of your memories, yes?" "Um... yeah," Giles said. The images *were* getting to him, to be honest. Ecstasy wasn't supposed to do that. "And you thought you were getting molly, yes?" "How do you know this?" "There's no time. We have one hour to get the drugs out of your system, and hopefully get some clues on who's doing this. Walk out across the street. There'll be a black van. Get in so we can save your memory. We'll need it." "You're crazy, woman. Don't call me ever again." Giles hit the red circle icon and stuffed his phone into his pocket. It'd been a really weird night. That woman knew an awful lot about him. But there were some pretty intricate scams going on these days. Yet... Giles walked back into the club and dashed across the dance floor, making his way past the poles and into the dimly-lit VIP section. "Mike! Hey Mike!" Giles yelled. He pushed past the bouncer, who promptly stiff-armed him. "Let me in, man. I got a pass." After seeing the circular glow on Giles wrist, the bouncer reluctantly stepped aside. "Mike! Hey look here!" His friend's eyes were rolled back into his skull, and it took a couple of takes before Mike seemed to recognise Giles. "Hey man! This is some pretty good shit!" Mike said. "Where did you get our stuff from, man? Do you remember the dealer?" "Huh? Man I'm so high right now. I love you, bro!" "Listen to me. Things seem a little dodgy--hey, let me go! I told you I have a pass!" The bouncer from earlier had a firm grip on Giles' tricep, one that felt impossible to shake off. The large-set man leaned in, almost as if he wanted to whisper to Giles, but then he proceeded to speak into the microphone on his jacket. "Yes ma'am. I have him right here. I'll bring him out," the bouncer said. "What are you doing man? Hey Mike! Tell him to lay off. Mike!" Then the lights turned on--or at least they seemed to--and for a moment it was Katie, his girlfriend, who was holding his arm. *What the fuck?* \# "Why do you always have to go out with Mike?" she asked. They were in his room. He was dressed up, ready to go out, and she was in her pyjamas. "He's nothing but trouble. And *you*, you promised me you'd stay in today!" "I do whatever the hell I want!" Giles yelled. His memories again. This happened just a few hours ago. Every time he had a flashback, it was as if he was transported right back there. Even his acid trips from before were less vivid. These were memories, not hallucinations, because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't change the course of his actions. It was as if his life was on replay, and he was just a first-hand observer. He wanted to stay. Going out was a huge mistake, but the events continued to unfold out as they'd happened. He didn't want to say what was coming next: "You're just a bloody drag, do you know that? You're nothing but a nuisance in my life!" The look on her face, those tears--his heart ached the first time he saw them. It ached even more now. Giles slammed the door behind him, leaving the image of a hurting Katie--arms to her chest, hands scrunching her shirt, lips quivering--behind. The slammed door turned into a car door. \# "I'm sorry we had to do this, Giles. We had to act quick." A lady in a button-up shirt and slacks sat before him. They were in an SUV of sorts, the seats facing each other. "Wha? What's going on?" "I'm Leyla. You're losing your memories, bit by bit. We're here to help. I'm going to need you to trust me." "No. No, let me out! What's wrong with you people? I'm not going anywhere with you!" Giles reached for the door and yanked at the handle. Locked. That didn't stop him from trying again. Recognising the futility, he finally resorted to pounding on the tinted windows, yelling his lungs out while at it. Leyla didn't do anything to stop him as the vehicle sped off. He pounded, and pounded, and pounded. \# "You gotta pound it right here," Giles said, as he hammered his fist on the vending machine. "Sometimes it acts up, but I know how to get around it." The lady beside him giggled. Giles had had his eyes on her since she walked into the convenience store. He never believed in love at first sight, but one thing was for sure, he'd found the love of his life that day. Honestly, this was his first time even seeing this damn vending machine. But when nothing came out after she'd stuck her dollar bill in, he knew that there'd never be a better chance to get to know her. "Well," she said, "looks like I'm never getting my soda." "Um, yeah. By the way, has anyone ever told you that you have the bluest eyes in the world? No wonder the sky's so grey." The stranger continued smiling. That was a good sign. "Terrible pick-up line," she said, "but I'll bite. Name's Katie. What's yours?" "The name's Gi--" "Paging for Denise Smith. Paging for Denise Smith. Please come to counter number four, I repeat, counter number four. Your son's looking for you." \# "Paging for Doctor Richards! We've got another one!" "Huh, wha?" White lights blinded Giles' eyes, and he'd made the transition from moving car to moving stretcher with no recollection of anything in between. In his lapsing consciousness, all he could make out were masked faces and fluorescent lights zipping past him. "Mister, Davis? Giles Davis?" "Yeah, that's me. Where... where am I?" "You're fine, Mister Davis. We're gonna need an emergency contact. Do you have anyone we can call?" "Katie. Katie Wils--" \# "Giles? What happened? Are you all right?" "What?" "It's me. Are you okay? Are you hurt?" "I... I don't know." Giles turned around. He stood outside a duplex unit and it was dark out. He was Giles Davis, he went to Dougherty Valley High School, and graduated from the university of California. That's all he knew, for now. "Let's go home," the woman said. "Where am I? Who are you?" "Giles," the look on her face turned dour. Somehow, it felt like he'd knew her for ages. "Giles, it's me, Katie. Someone called me to come get you, said you were in trouble. Giles, are you all right? You're scaring me." "I'm sorry... I really don't know who you are." "Giles..." tears streaked down her cheeks. "Your eyes though... they're so *blue*. No wonder it's so dark out." The woman cried even harder, much to Giles' confusion. But one thing was for sure though--he'd found the love of his life that night.