“Excuse me would be nice,” Oshun Kingston spat, as she looked down at her champagne glass that had fallen out of her hand and onto the floor as she was bum rushed by a large male causing the contents of her glass to make contact with the freshly polished cherry-wood flooring of the party’s venue. Oshun had flown out from her New York brownstone to Atlanta for her friend, Natalie’s New Years Eve party. She and Natalie had met in high school, and while they remained in touch over the years, they hadn’t exactly seen one another in person. Natalie had invited her before the Thanksgiving holiday and Oshun being the type to keep her promises, she turned down all of her other party offers just to spend time with Natalie. The man, who’d bumped into her stopped in his stride and turned on his heels to apologize, but it fell on blind ears when Oshun noticed that it wasn’t just a random man. Her eyes took in those insanely dark eyes, and the intense stare they had on her face--a stare that she’d grown to love years ago. Her eyes trailed over his full eyebrows accompanied by thin but long eyelashes. His full lips were plump and moisturized, something she’d taught him to do years ago, and a full beard filled the lower portion of his cheeks and chin. She didn’t bother to check out his body because his face was enough to make her knees go weak and have thoughts that she shouldn’t have, considering she was engaged to be married. Faraj Mueller was his name, and the simple action of him smiling at her had her mind rethinking the past that they’d shared. “Oshun? Girl, what are you doing here?” He asked her, as he filled the distance between them. Oshun couldn’t form the words to say to him before he wrapped his arms around her in a bone-crushing hug, squeezing her small body to his chest like he’d done millions of times before. Except they were no longer a couple now. Oshun and Faraj had dated for a little over a year in high school. The two had ended on a good note during the summer before college. They’d collectively agreed that it was best to end their relationship there instead of holding onto one another since they had planned to go to two completely opposite regions for college. After college at Georgetown University, Oshun had moved to New York having not wanted to return to Georgia where her family was located. Faraj, on the other hand, returned home after attending Xavier University to go to medical school at Emory University. Eight and a half years had passed since, and the two hadn’t seen one another since their breakup. While they had mutual friends, Oshun hadn’t been a social butterfly like she had been in high school. She had piled work on herself, taking on different projects and assignments at work to the point that she barely had any free time. As a project manager and accountant--her dual majors at Georgetown--it was nothing for her to work ten to twelve hours a day, anyway. It was a wonder that she’d found time to date, and it was even more a surprise that she was currently planning for a wedding to her boyfriend of the last two years. Faraj, on the other hand, had made a lot of effort to see their mutual friends and stay in contact with the people they’d grown close to in high school. Although he was currently in his residency as a family physician, even as a medical school student, he went out every once in a while just to keep the bonds strong. Natalie was known for throwing amazing parties, especially for the holidays and this was not one to miss. Especially now that he was seeing Oshun for the first time since their split. Oshun didn’t know how long they hugged, but at the end, she felt drugged up on his strong cologne. She held onto his arm to gain her balance and fight against her knees growing weak as she inhaled his masculine scent, having missed being in his arms. While Faraj hadn’t been nearly as muscular when they dated, he always gave her a sense of security and comfort whenever she was in his arms. “Natalie invited me before all the holidays. How about you?” she asked him, as she dropped her hand to her side. “Same here,” Faraj nodded his head. “It’s been so long since I saw you, but you still look like the Oshun I remember. I know you went off to New York and stuff, I was kind of expecting you to be a full-blown city girl.” Faraj’s southern accent was strong, lacing all of his words but it had been another one of the things she liked about him. Although she’d also been born and raised in Georgia, her accent was not nearly as strong even before going off to college. Since then, her accent had dwindled down even more. Oshun chuckled, as she ran her fingers through her hair and pushed a piece that had fallen into her face behind her ear, “I might live in New York, but I’ll always be a Georgia girl at heart.” “Mhm,” Faraj hummed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “it seems like you do more than live there,” his eyes fell onto her hand, the single-carat heart-shaped diamond ring glistening underneath the disco lights. “Congratulations.” Oshun gave him a tight-lipped smile, “Thank you.” Faraj nodded, “When was the big day?” “It’s actually this upcoming August,” she informed him. “Cool,” Faraj told her. “Did you bring the lucky man along?” Oshun shook her head no, “He’s actually in New York with his family for the New Years. Did you bring anyone special along?” Faraj shook his own head no, “My girlfriend is spending her New Years in Vegas with her sisters. So, I came alone too.” Oshun nodded, forcing a smile onto her face, “Well, it was nice seeing you, Faraj. I want to go get another drink since someone knocked the other one out of my hand.” Faraj chuckled, “I apologize for that. Let me buy you something, as a peace offering. Whatever drink you want, on me.” “That’s quite a heavy offer. Let me think about what I really want,” she teased him, by plating her hand on her chin as she turned on her heels in the direction of the bar and strutted over with Faraj in tow. The tail of her one-sleeve, sequined, designer mini dress moved from side-to-side with the sway of her hips and the small muscles in her arms flexed as she swayed her bare arm with each step. Her naturally long hair that reached her tailbone swung behind her, considering the slick-back, wet-look she’d sported for the night’s occasion. Oshun was confident in her stride, gaining the attention of several other party goers, and she’d never lost Faraj’s attention since he realized that he’d ran into her. He tried to keep his eyes up ahead, but he couldn’t refrain himself from taking a glance at her derriere that was all the more full due to how tightly the dress hugged her body like a second skin. Reaching the bar, Oshun slid into the stool causing her dress to ride up her thighs leaving even more skin exposed as Faraj sat down in the empty stool beside her. The bar was packed, full of party goers--some retrieving their first drink since arrival and others at the brink of reaching their limit for the night. As soon as Oshun sat down, a male bartender was standing in front of her with a wide smile awaiting her drink request. Deciding she wanted something stronger than champagne, she got a mix of Vodka and Cranberry juice before Faraj added on a few shots of brown alcohol which sent the bartender on his way to make their orders. “So how long are you in town?” Faraj asked her. “Just until tomorrow night. I only get the rest of the weekend off, then it’s back to work on Monday so I want to prepare myself for this long week ahead,” she told him. Faraj nodded, “What did you study again?” “Accounting and project management. Dr. Mueller in the making right?” She asked, remembering how much Faraj talked about becoming a physician. Faraj nodded with a smile on his face, “Yes ma’am.” Their drinks were placed in front of them, and for the rest of the night they stayed at the bar sharing a couple of drinks--courtesy of Faraj. They caught up further with one another and even asked prying questions about their individual families and if children were a factor for either of them. They weren’t. “So how is it in New York? I was planning to visit during the Spring, maybe you can show me around,” Faraj told her, as she finished off her second drink. “Well, the winters are cold and the place in itself is crowded, but there's a lot to do. I don't have a car because I would be late to work every day with the traffic, but it's really become home for me. I like the fast-paced environment and the pay for my job makes it even better,” she told him. Faraj nodded, as he ran his fingers through his freshly trimmed beard. “Sounds like the complete opposite of things here,” he gathered. “You know, I really can't see myself now being here in Georgia. My whole life is here, but I admire you for going off to chase your dreams. That takes a lot of courage to do.” Oshun smiled, tapping her medium-length acrylic nails against the bar. “I wanted a change of scenery, and when I got the offer after graduating college to go to New York and start at a rate that usually isn't achieved until you have at least five years of experience, I knew it was an opportunity of a lifetime. I do need to travel home more often because this is the first time I came south for the holidays in two years, but hopefully after the wedding, my husband and I can alternate holidays with our families,” she told him, with honesty in her words. While Oshun had some resentment towards her parents for things unknown to Faraj and others around her, being home had brought a nostalgic feeling to her that she hadn't felt since signing her lease for her brownstone. That feeling alone let her know that she had to do better. Growing up, her family had struggled tremendously and partly was because of her parents inability to communicate and listen to one another. She had a strong-willed mother and a father that wanted to be the wholesome breadwinner, which led to them fighting and arguing on several occasions. It wasn't until Oshun was in high school that her family had gotten to the best position in their lives, partly because church and prayer had grown more common among her parents. Though she loved her parents, she hated the environment she had had to endure for the majority of her life before the peace came about. That had been part of her reason for wanting to go away for college, anyway. Faraj smiled to refrain from visually cringing at Oshun’s mention of her future husband. He didn't know why, but he should have not been feeling like that especially when he had a girlfriend of his own. It had been years since he’d last seen Oshun in person, yet he still felt like a seventeen year old boy approaching her at the English table she shared with a few of her friends to ask her out on a date. They’d gone to school together for years, but it wasn't until the near end of their junior year that he approached her with hope that she’d give him a chance. To his own surprise, she had, and the rest had been history until it was time to start preparing to go away for school. As much as Faraj wanted to tell her that he wanted them to try long-distance and try to make their relationship work, he knew it was best to allow Oshun her space. So, he agreed and told himself that he’d get over it with time. Honestly, he had never got over it. He’d simply just learned to suppress the emotions he felt and with Oshun across the country, it made it easier to move on. That was until he saw her tonight. “Well, I’m happy you enjoyed your time at home. I’d really like for you to show me around when I come in March, that’s if you don't mind,” he persisted but remained cool in his stance, not wanting to come off as being needy. When in doubt, he’d just find his own way around New York. “Sure, let’s exchange numbers.” Oshun picked up her phone from the bar with intent and looked to Faraj, who’d begun to recite his telephone number. It’s still the same, she thought. She had never forgotten his number, and she’d even been close to dialing his number up during undergrad on multiple occasions just to talk. She never had though. She then told him her number, which was different than it had been in high school simply because she changed her number after the move to New York. It was her way of closing the chapter of her life that contained her childhood, and while her childhood was definitely a huge part of her, she liked it better knowing that the majority of Georgia no longer had her number. Faraj locked the number into his phone before shoving the device back into his pocket. As their conversation continued, Oshun didn't know why but old sparks started to fly and her body began to do things that she didn't want it to. She had no control over it, though. She was experiencing things with Faraj that even her fiancé hadn't evoked, and that alone was scary. She just hoped that she was making a mistake. One in marrying her acquired New York love. Two in exchanging numbers with Faraj.


“You told them,” Hannah Gregor said to the woman at her front door. “I can’t believe you told everyone about our extra supplies.” The cool night air blew in through the open door. Light from the flashlights and cellphones shone at her like a spotlight in the dark. “Hannah, they don’t want any trouble, but you have to share,” Rachel Andrews said. “You’re hoarding food, and it’s not right.” Shouts and grumbles came from the people behind her. The group had started as a few random individuals, but more neighbors had filtered out of their houses to join the fray. “We gave you food,” Hannah whispered to her once friend. “We gave you and your daughter food.” “You gave us expired food!” Rachel hissed. Spit sprayed from her bared teeth. “You gave us trash. I can’t feed Luna expired food. It could hurt her poor stomach.” “It’s canned soup. It’s still fine,” Hannah said. “We ate it ourselves.” “Children’s stomachs are more sensitive,” Rachel insisted. “But that’s not the point. You have more than enough food to share, but you’re hoarding it. You’re keeping it secret while people are starving.” “No one’s starving,” Hannah said, trailing off. The neighbors looked angry, though not emaciated. Her husband, Victor, stepped up to the door. “We gave you food because we felt bad for you and your daughter,” Victor said. “And this is how you repay us? I told Hannah you’re a user. You were a terrible friend before the apocalypse, and you’re worse now. People don’t change.” “Enough with the talking,” a skinny man with a small gun said. “We ain’t here to debate. We’re here to redistribute the wealth. We all gotta pull together to survive. We all gotta share. It ain’t right that some have more while others starve.” “This is our stuff and our private property,” Victor insisted. “You can’t just come in here and take it. We have no idea how long the power will be out or when things will get back to normal. We need this food, too.” “Then you probably should’ve invested in some firearms,” the skinny man laughed. “Because there ain’t no way you’ll keep what you got without them.” Hannah glanced around at the group. No one else in the group seemed to have a gun, though a few people had baseball bats and golf clubs. “Rachel, where did you find this guy?” Hannah sneered. “You really do have the worst taste in men.” “Jimmy is here willing to take care of us, you judgmental bitch,” Rachel snapped back. “You and I were never really friends. I just hung out with you because you live next door and gave me free babysitting.” “You’re a great mother,” Hannah snapped back. “Whoring around to all hours. At least we gave her a safe place to stay.” “Fuck you, you barren bitch!” Rachel screamed and lunged at them. “Get out of the way! We’re taking your shit.” The crowd of neighbors surged at that, pushing to get into the house. In their haste, they stumbled up the steps of the front porch, a tangle of limbs and scrambling bodies. Victor was able to slam the door and lock it, but not before Jimmy and Rachel tumbled in. “Don’t move!” Jimmy screeched, holding the gun in front of him. His thin arms shook with adrenaline and nerves. A greasy stench of body odor and fear emanated from him. A lilac-scented candle on the coffee couldn’t cover the smell. Victor and Hannah froze, sweat dripping from their foreheads. The fire in the fireplace cast a hot orange light around the dark room. “You’re going to kill us?” Hannah held up her arms. “Come on, it hasn’t gotten to this, has it?” “You WILL share,” Jimmy said. “Listen to that crowd out there. Your neighbors are starving. They aren’t going to stand for this.” “We’ve been giving to the communal pot,” Victor protested. “We’ve been giving just as much as the others. It’s barely been two weeks. How could people not have enough food to get them through two weeks? They’re hoarding, too. They just won’t admit it.” “Well, they don’t got enough,” Jimmy said. “They know you got more, and they want it. They’re going to tear your house apart.” “What if we can reach an agreement?” Victor asked. “What if we hire you to guard the house?” “Why would I need to work for you when I can just take what you got?” Jimmy waved his gun. “I’m the one with the gun here. You are going to give me whatever I want.” “But how are you going to get it out of here?” Hannah protested. “Those people are going to come in here and tear everything apart. They’re going to destroy everything in the process, and no one’s going to get anything. Even if you try to take food out of here, they will take that too.” The four of them looked at the mob pounding on the door and shouting obscenities. “Stop them, and you can stay with us,” Victor said quickly. “We have plenty of water from the rain barrels and wood for the fireplace. It’s warm here. There’s tons of food. We’ve been cooking on the camp stove and the grill.” “You can defend this place,” Hannah agreed. “You can help us protect the house.” “I could just kick you out and take over,” Jimmy pointed out. “Yeah, just kick them out,” Rachel agreed. “Kick them out, and we’ll live here in their perfect house.” The pretty crackling fire gave the gray interior a happy, cozy feel despite the mob outside. “What are you going to do, murder us?” Hannah argued. “The people out there aren’t going to let you get away with that. And what if things do start back up? They might forgive a little looting, but murder is going to get you put away.” Jimmy paused at that. The tip of his gun lowered a few inches. “We have a very nice guestroom,” Victor said. “You two can stay in there. We’ll draw you a bath.” “I do need a bath,” Jimmy grinned. “This place is a lot better than your house.” He looked at Rachel, who glared back. “I’m a single mother,” she fumed. “I don’t have all of this disposable income to throw away on candles and fireplaces.” A large bang sounded against the front door. “We have to get them to go away,” Victor gestured to the door. It was steel with tiny windows across the top. Two of the little windows had cracked, and the molding around the door had become loose and crumbling. “I’ll take care of them,” Jimmy said. He went to the window near the door, opened it, and pushed out the screen, which clattered to the ground. He pointed the gun out the window. “Get out of here!” He screamed. He shot off two rounds into the front lawn. The people on the porch ducked and scrambled. One man tumbled over the railing and into the bushes. The mob stepped on a woman who had fallen at the bottom of the stairs. She screamed and crawled to her feet, then ran off. Jimmy pulled his arm back into the house and closed the window. He locked it firmly. “You didn’t shoot anyone. Did you?” Rachel asked nervously. “No, of course not,” Jimmy scoffed. “I just scared them. These city kid liberals are so scared of guns that they run at the first shot. Now, be a dear and run that bath for us.” Jimmy sauntered over to the couch and sat down. He picked up one of the two glasses of wine on the table and took a sip. “Nice vintage.” He tapped the gun on his knee. Rachel walked over and sat next to him. She took the second half-finished glass and sipped it with a smug grin. “Maybe we could get a little snack?” she asked. “Do you have more of that amazing salsa from the farmer’s market?” “Yeah, I think we do.” Hannah went to the kitchen and prepared the salsa and chips. She returned with a large bowl of salsa and a bigger bowl of tortilla chips and set them on the coffee table. Victor hauled water from the rain barrels up the stairs and poured them into the bathtub. He heated a kettle on the fireplace and poured it in to warm the cold water. Jimmy and Rachel drank and ate on the couch, laughing and making out. Jimmy set the gun on the armrest next to him. Whenever Hannah or Victor came by, he picked up the gun and tapped his knee. Hannah went upstairs to check on the bath and came down with two bath bombs in her hands. “Would you like a bath bomb?” she asked. “We have rose and lavender.” “Why not both?” Jimmy said extravagantly. “My baby deserves it.” Rachel laughed as he grabbed at her chest. “Why not?” Hannah said with a thin smile. Jimmy and Rachel opened another bottle of wine and went upstairs to the bathroom. Jimmy kissed her neck as they went in. “Rachel, where’s Sarah?” Hannah whispered as they passed in the hall. “Oh, old Mrs. Henderson is watching her tonight,” Rachel giggled. “She’s fine.” Hannah and Victor went to their room and closed the door. The room was pitch black without any streetlights or alarm clocks. The only sound was the laughing and splashing coming from the bathroom. They got under the covers quickly as the house was chilly away from the fireplace. Victor wrapped his arms around Hannah as they snuggled deep into the bed. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Victor whispered. “I can’t believe Rachel did this to us.” “I can,” Hannah scoffed. “Do you remember how she threw me under the bus at the Halloween party? She was always shady.” “That’s true,” he frowned in the dark. “What are we going to do?” “Do you remember the poison I bought last year to get rid of those mice that were chewing the internet cables?” Hannah whispered. “Yeah, do we still have it?” Victor’s voice was barely audible. “Well, not anymore.”


Yesterday “I see that your name is Karma,” the old nurse said. “That’s an odd name.” “That’s the name my mother gave me, nurse Fletcher,” the young woman answered. “Your mother, eh? Didn’t your father have a say when it came to choose your name?” “My father wasn’t around anymore when I was born, nurse Fletcher. He left my mother the moment he knew she was expecting.” The old nurse looked up from Karma’s resume. “That’s a shame,” she said. “One wonders what type of man would make a woman pregnant, and then refuse to take responsibility.” “I grew up asking myself the same question too, nurse Fletcher,” Karma replied. “You’ve never had a father figure in your life?” nurse Fletcher asked. “I’m afraid not. Is that a problem, nurse Fletcher?” “I guess not. You’re not to blame for what your father did.” “Thank you, nurse Fletcher. Not everyone thinks that way.” “Don’t worry about it. Us women have to stick together, especially when it comes to dealing with men,” nurse Fletcher reassured the girl while she took another look at the CV in front of her. “You certainly have the right qualifications.” “I also have a letter of recommendation from my previous employer,” the young woman added, and she handed the document to nurse Fletcher. The woman only read the first couple of lines, and then looked at the name under the signature. “You come highly recommended. Do you know what your job will entail if we decide to hire you?” “I would have to take care of mister Ratched while you’re out of state attending to your sister who has fallen ill recently.” “That’s correct. It’s hard work, but it can be very rewarding. I have been looking after mister Ratched for almost twenty-five years now. I was hired right after he had that horrible accident that left him paralyzed.” “I read that it was a hit-and-run accident,” Karma said. “Is that true, nurse Fletcher?” “The car that caused the crash was found, but they never found the owner, nor the person who drove it. It’s such a shame. Mister Ratched had such a promising career.” The two women remained silent for a moment. Nurse Fletcher broke the silence with a question. “You know that the job is only temporary, don’t you? You’d be here only to replace me until I return from helping out my sister.” “I am aware of that, nurse Fletcher, but I’m happy to accept the job anyway, if you would have me,” Karma answered. “I hope your sister recovers soon.” “Thank you. I hope so too.” Today “Hello mister Ratched, my name is Karma.” “Well hello,” mister Ratched said. “What a sight for sore eyes you are! Are you the girl old nurse Fletcher hired to keep an eye on me while she’s away?” “I am, sir,” Karma answered. “You look very young. I feared nurse Fletcher would have hired an old bat just like herself. I’m surprised she did me the pleasure of hiring a pretty young thing like you. How old are you?” “I’m twenty-four, going on twenty-five, sir.” “That’s indeed young,” mister Ratched smiled. “Tell me, what do you have in store for me today? A visit to a museum? A walk in the park? Some wild sex, maybe?” Karma smiled down on her employer. “Be careful what you wish for, sir,” she teased him, the top buttons of her outfit undone to show cleavage. “You might get it.” “Ooh-la-la! The girl has spirit! I can hardly wait. Tell me more!” Karma put on a pair of rubber gloves she took from her pockets. “I’m going to torture you all day long, sir, until you beg me to kill you,” Karma said with her coldest voice. “Then I’m going to grant you a night to think about your sins. Tomorrow, I’m going to torture you some more, and you’re going to beg me some more. We’ll keep on doing that until I can find enough mercy in my heart to finish you off.” “Wait, what?” mister Ratched gasped. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Karma didn’t answer. She took the suitcase she had brought with her and opened it so that her victim could see its contents: a complete knife set, pliers, hooks, a bone saw, a pin wheel, and tools mister Ratched couldn’t even imagine what they could be used for. Nothing good, as he would soon find out. Twenty-five years ago Vanessa welcomed the physical pain of labor. It made her forget the pain of her broken heart for just a moment. She was about to give birth to the child of a man who had dumped her the same day she told him she was pregnant of his firstborn. She had cursed his name: Bill Ratched. He had promised her the world, and she had believed him. He had showered her with presents; he had even bought her a car --from some shady second-hand car dealer, she realized afterwards. Ironically, she used that gift to accomplish her revenge. She had hoped to kill him, and to die in the accident herself. As by wonder, she survived the crash she caused, and with her, the child inside her. She dumped the car, leaving no trace that could lead to her. No one knew she had been dating Bill. He always claimed he didn’t want people to know to protect her against gossip. The tabloids would ruin her life if they knew she was dating the son of one of the wealthiest families in the world. It was better to keep their relationship a secret. At least that’s what he wanted her to believe, and she had been naive enough to fall for his story. How could she have been so stupid? The day after her attempt to end both their lives, she read in the newspapers that he had survived the collision too. Bill Ratched would never recover from his injuries, though. He would be paralyzed for life. “I call it Karma,” Vanessa shouted as she pushed the baby out of her body. The midwife who helped deliver the child thought she was talking about the newborn girl that cried her lungs out. “What a nice name,” she said, and she wrote it on the wristband for the baby.


She stood still in the aisle between two very old bookcases. They were built to withstand time and it showed. The small gaps and nooks were filled with cobwebs and their little tenants yet the bookcases seemed untouched by the unforgiving hands of time. Solid they stood guarding the old, musty books of all shapes, colours and sizes. The girl touched the wooden surface, mesmerized by the strength it carried with it. As she touched it she could feel something in the air. As if she was not alone. Her fingers traced the extravagant patter carved in the corner of one of the shelves. It was a beautiful floral motive, where the lilies had intertwined with ivy leaves. The girl smiled as her fingers traced each of the leaves, leaving soft streaks in the dusty blanket. The girl looked back at the aisle, looking to see where the shelves ended, yet all she could see was that they disappeared into the dark. It was dusk hour outside, and the sun had slipped behind the horizon a while back. With that the light had faded away slowly but surely. "Is that... mist?" the girl wondered looking at the dark. She thought that the floor was covered in a soft, white, fluffy carpet. The longer she gazed at the tiled floor where it was swallowed by the dark shadows, the more she could swear the mist grew closer and closer to her. "Boo!" a sudden slap on her shoulders and loud shrieking laughter filled her ears, making her jump three feet high. "Cas, you scared me to death!" she gave her friend annoyed look, and gazed back at the end of the aisle, yet the mist was gone. "Something is not right," was the last thought before the rest of their group came around. "There you are Clara," a young and very slim boy exclaimed, "we began to worry you abandoned our mission!" "And leave you all to fend for yourselves?" Clara teased back, "pff, someone has to keep an eye on you all!" It was the four of them. Best friends since they learned to walk, and like any group of friends they all had their roles to play. Cassandra, The Life Of The Party. No matter what occurred, her spirits could not be wavered. Whether the sun was shinning, or the world was ending, she always would walk the plank laughing, her blond curly hair bouncing. Tim, The Butterfly. The poor boy barely uttered a word in crowds. Most people had not heard him speak at all up to this day, however, once it was just the four of them, he blooms out of his cocoon like a little butterfly. Perhaps sometimes a little too much, for the things that come out of the boy’s mind surprised even his friends. Andrew, The Know It All. He was a slim and very young looking boy. Eager to prove himself to anyone and everyone. Although his smart brain had lack of breaks. The boy had no idea when to stop which often than not got them all in a mess. And there was Clara, The Mom. She kept them all together, and sometimes in line. She made sure they all got home safe, they all were okay. She'd be the one each of them would come to, to tell their secrets and worries, knowing she'd keep them till the day she died. She loved them all dearly, and they loved her too, though not a word of this was spoken. It was a feeling to be felt and experienced, not outspoken and paraded. "Where is Tim?" Clara asked, seeing it was just Cas and Andy. "Setting up camp," Andrew said walking back to where Cas and him had come from, "come! You have got to see this!" Clara followed them down an aisle of books, looking around at the shelves. Each one was decorated with a different type of ornament, yet all of them bare the same aura. One that demanded reverence. They took turns left and right, walking deeper into the maze, until they came to a circular hall. It seemed like it was the centre for the library. All paths would lead them back to this place. The floor was decorated with what looked like smoothed pebbles, of all different shapes and sizes. They covered the floor beneath their feet, painting a very abstract mosaic. Clara tried to see what it may be but the image was so large, that she could not work out what it looked like. Clara looked up. Above their heads the ceiling was high up, where it moulded into a dome, covered in stained glass. There were shades of green, blue, red, all coming together to pain a tree engulfed by an octopus. "What an odd combination," Clara thought. "Where is Tim?" Andrew looked around. In the middle of the opening laid four backpacks and three neatly laid out sleeping bags. The pillows seemed thrown wherever one may find them, yet the fourth sleeping bag was scrunched up closer to the farthest side of the hall. The light had started to fade, as the dusk had turned to night and the last scruples of sunlight had faded away, leaving only darkness and faint glimmer of the moon. It peeked through the dome into the hall giving the girls and their companion a very faint silhouettes of what was in front of them. "Maybe he chickened out," Cass giggled, tickling Andrew as she said it, "he doesn't like the dark." "Tim is not a chicken," Clara quietly said walking towards the sleeping bags, "something is not right." "Oh, don't start," Cass whined, "we all agreed. A night in this place to mark our last year in school." That was the pact. They all had agreed and sworn by it. This building sat in the woods, up in the hill, behind a thick stone wall, forgotten by all. Tales and myths roamed around the village folk about disappearing children, ghosts and wild animals that guarded this place. Ass usual with an odd building that stuck out like a sore thumb. However, as far as the four were concerned it was simply an old library, forgotten and abandoned. "Where is Tim then?" Clara asked waving her hands around as she looked back at the others. "Maybe he just heard a sound and went to investigate?" Andrew shrugged, "that's his sleeping bag over there." Clara walked closer to the discarded fabric, until she stopped, seeing the spider webs knitting the bottom of the shelf together with the tilled floor. "The webs," she whispered. "What's that?" Cas asked, confused. "The spider webs. They are everywhere," Clara looked around them. As far as she could see in the dim light of the moon, everything as covered in them. Well, almost everything. "Well, yes silly biscuit," Cas giggled, "what else would you expect?" "It is a pretty old place," Andre shrugged picking up his own backpack and looking for a flashlight. "Then why none of the books are covered in them?" Clara asked. Both Cas and Andrew looked puzzled. He finally found what he had searched for and turned on the small flashlight, casting a light towards one of the shelves. Indeed. Everything had cobwebs and dust over them yet the books sat almost untouched, their titles cast in gold glimmering in the light. As if someone had placed them only yesterday. "That is odd," Andrew's brow furrowed. Cas suddenly grabbed the flashlight from Andrew's hand and cast it's light past Clara into the aisle of one of the pathways. "Easy!" he exclaimed, surprised by the girl's sudden move, "what is the matter, now?" "Look," she said, pointing to the dark. As far as the light could reach all they could see was the shelves and books. A second, two, thirty, and then a minute passed. Nothing. "What are we supposed to see?" Andrew asked, shuffling on his feet. He had started to get uncomfortable. He too hated the dark, and Tim was not a boy who would just disappear. "Wait," Cass whispered. Clara looked back at the aisle and finally noticed what her friend had seen. The mist. It was subtle, like a translucent fog, seeping closer to them, as if someone had spilt a bucket of it and it just slowly would make it's way towards them. Like water. Fluid and quiet. "When was the last time you heard of a fog in the middle of the library?" she looked at Andrew with piercing look, without shifting the beam of light. "It's possible with the right humidity and temperature," Andrew answered walking towards the fog. Clara stood up from where she was and walked with him closer to the fog. "Where is Tim?" she whispered. "He can't be far," Andrew gave her one of his crooked smiles, that showed off his dimples, "he probably went looking for us and ended up lost. This place is huge." "Guys," Cas shouted after them, her voice bearing a hint of panic, "this does not feel right." "It's just a fog," Andrew laughed, looking back at her over his shoulder. "Look," Clara said, pointing to the floor. There, covered by the fog sat a book. A few feet further there was another one, laying skewed on the tiles and half eaten by darkness there was one laying on its back opened to the middle of the story it hid in it's pages. "I must be dreaming," Clara whispered, "but I think the fog is coming from the book." "When has the fog felt hot?" Andrew asked, looking at his feet that were now engulfed in thicker clouds of grey and white. "You're asking me?" the girl looked at him as she kneeled down to pick the book up. Before her fingers could even brush over the pages a quiet rumble made her freeze. It was barely audible, yet they all felt it. A tremor through their feet. “We need to go,” Cass shouted at them. “Not without Tim,” Clara retorted. Cas’s shout had snapped her out of her panic, that she felt in her bones, she reached for the book again. This time the tremor was stronger, making her nearly loose her balance, and she heard a loud thud. As if a large boulder had been thrown on a soft grass. “Clara, we really need to go,” Andrew put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her towards where Cas was, when Clara saw a talon appear on top of the pages. The pages seemed to have become translucent where the talon sat. It was big, as long as her palm, black and scalley like a lizard. “Run,” she whispered getting up and backing away, grabbing Andrew’s hand as she did so. “What?” he exclaimed but one look at the book at the edge of the flashlights beam and he understood exactly. The talon had started to grown into two, three, out of the pages into the light, half swallowed by the dark a claw appeared. “Run!” Clara turned pulling Andrew with her and they ran, as they ran past Cas, Clara grabbed her hand and dragged her with them. They dashed down the aisles of the shelves into the dark, half illuminated by the pitiful beam of the flashlight. “What was that?” Cas gasped as they stopped on a corner of the maze of shelves. She had not seen all of it, but she knew something had appeared to scare both her friends and her. “I don’t-“ before Andrew could answer, a rumble of a bellowing roar shook the very core of the library. The bookshelves swayed under the power of that roar. “Give me that,” Clara quickly snatched the flash light and swithced the light off. “What are you-?” Cas shrieked, until Clara shushed her. “Do not move, do not talk,” she whispered, “it’s looking for us.” Another rumble, that sounded a lot closer, shook the bookcases more violently. It was so powerful that the trio held on to the nearest shelves to keep to their feet. It was a terrifying sound. Like a thunder that crackled above your head before the blast. They could hear wheezes and crackles coming closer. However, the closer they came the more they sounded coming from above. Until another rumble, sounding like a blast of electricity came from right above their heads. The power of it made all three get to their knees, to withstand it. Something had landed above their heads, holding onto the shelves on either sides of them. Cas had squeezed her ears shut, her teeth biting her lip as hard as she could not to utter a word and give away their hiding place. Andrew was sitting on his bottom, looking up in awe and horror. Clara looked up and felt like the air had left her lungs. The few skylights gave enough light to see a shape of a scaly belly, coupled with feathers, that looked as sharp as a knife, glistening in the dark. The creature was so large all they could see were the sharp talons digging into the bookcases as it held on to them. A great sniffing sound came from above, and a swoosh of air made the trio know the creature was moving it’s head to see where they were. Clara suddenly got on all fours and slid across the tiled floor. If she could make it a bit further away, she could distract the creature long enough for Cas and Andy to run for their lives. She slid further and further, listening for the sounds of the moving creature, until her leg caught a book, opening it. Clara suddenly felt a gust of wind pulling her backwards. She grasped and grappled for anything to hold on to, yet the smooth floor provided no help. She turned on to her back and looked at what was pulling her back, thinking it was the monster, yet to her surprise it was the book she had knocked. The pages had opened a hole in the ground where whirlpool of wind had formed, pulling her closer. “Andy, Cas! Run!” she shouted before the whirlpool pulled her in, as she closed her eyes. Yet once she opened them she felt as if she was falling. All around her were letters forming words that were falling along with her. She looked down, to see where she may end up and saw the world bellow her feet forming in all shades of black and grey. A world inside the book.


Laid on her bed horizontally, her chin propped up on one of her pillows. Bani watched her fish swim around its tank moving from the right side to the left side, pausing there for a moment, and then from the left to right pausing there for a moment over and over, as it usually did. While watching her fish whom she had named Venus, Bani talked about her day and whatever else was on her mind as she usually did. Bani was a very intelligent young child and perhaps somewhat related to this, she was also quite a lonely isolated child. She had bad social anxiety and a set of parents who also suffered from various social anxieties. As a result, Bani had a difficult time communicating especially to kids her own age and struggled to make many friends during this early part of her life. In a sort of way, at this time, her best friend was her fish. Some of the greatest conversations she ever had were with Venus, she would tell her everything, unhindered and unincumbered. She would complain to Venus about her parents and teachers, she would tell her what she was sad about when she was sad, what she was happy about when she was happy, what she wanted to do, and who wanted to be when she was older and so. All the while Venus swam its few routes back and forth, every once in a while, stopping and starring with its naïve eyes back her direction. Still at an inevitably naïve age, Bani felt the inclination to believe that in these moments, Venus understood and personally love her, like a friend. Although its possible that Venus did at some point started to recognize the recurring patterns of Bani’s facial arrangement and associating her likeness with food, it of course it did not actually like nor know Bani in real sense of these terms at all, it was a fish. It hadn’t the slightest clue as to how to form the slightest clue of what or in this case whom Bani was. Its mental framework far too small, its perceptual and cognitive capacity essentially null. Venus would go on to live 15 healthy years, aging with Bani through her adolescence. Sort of out of habit, Bani continued to talk with Venus throughout the rest of its life. Of course, Bani soon realized how foolish it was talking with a fish, understanding that Venus certainty did not get her or like her on level at all. But nonetheless, she still enjoyed the routine. Now though on the occasions that Venus’ eyes looked back at her, Bani found herself wondering instead that if nit really her, what exactly was Venus really experiencing. Could it recognize her in any form at all, could it understand her at all, did it really process anything as the reality of what was actually happening. Bani reflected on the fact that Venus obviously knew that she was some sort of something that was happening around or to it whenever she did something like feed it or put her hand in the tank and so forth. But at the same time since Venus did not or could not know what that something actually was and why it was doing what it was doing. Bani’s image and touch and vocal vibrations or things happening to it with no conscious source. Or for it to understand that Bani was a living being that loved it, that she cared for it, that those sounds emitted had meaning contained inside of them. Although Venus could never know, it had a huge impact on Bani’s life. Their sort of relationship greatly influencing her as she asked these sorts of questions. Learning more about herself and her interest of the world. Between the bond she found with Venus, her social anxiety and her hard time communicating. Over the course of her early teens Bani became deeply interested of how species developed and carried out language. Delving further into this research field known as linguistics. A long long time ago lived an intelligent interestrial being evolved from the earliest lineages of life. As it successfully formed through time it developed intelligence-built technology eventually breaching the bonds of biological and neuro biological conditions and finally harnessing the total energy of its whole galaxy. Over time the super intelligent specie had gotten smaller and smaller until it became what would appear immaterial to all beings’ other dimensional levels. Now the species traverses the universe exploring and perceiving things outside it and in between time, not confined to it nor the same physical material conditions that confine 3,4,5,6,7,8 and 9 dimensional spaces. Bani’s reality is accessible to the interesterial species in a way that might be sort of similar in a way which Bani accesses information from an external computer hard drive. Specially the interestrial specie is an intelligent being, perhaps somewhat related to this, it is also a very lonely isolated intelligent being. It has a bad form of what would sort of be the equivalent to social anxiety, as a consequence to overthink some of its maladaptive input codes. It usually has a difficult time communicating with others especially its own kind. It has and continued to struggle to make many friends, in a sort of way at this time Bani is its best friend. Some of the greatest conversations it has ever had are with Bani, it tells her everything, unhindered and unincumbered. It complains to her, it tells her about its life, to be alone and to exist in a condition that it does, its favorite places in the universe and so on. Early on when the interestrial being by chance picked out Bani, not too dissimilar in which the way Bani picked out Venus. It initially thought that she sorts of understood and loved it like a friend. But of course, it didn’t take long for the interestrial being to understand that there was no way for Bani to understand and know of it, at all. She couldn’t know that it loved her, that it cared for her, that the frequencies emitted had meaning contained inside of them. That there were even any frequencies at all. To Bani and the rest of humanity, there was no real source, her mental framework far too small, her perceptual and cognitive capacity essentially no in comparison.


Reya glanced at the corner of the bar where she would ordinarily be found nursing a very dirty martini. A dismissive smile played on the corners of her lips as she closed her eyes and swayed her hips sensually. She felt a strange pressure in her arms, a build-up of tension that up until a few years ago was completely alien to her. Reya had learned to stop fighting her body when an urge took over so let her arms go free. They shot up in the air and slowly snaked down, fingers raking through her hair and down the back of her neck before smoothing along the outside curves of her body. She could feel eyes on her, drinking her body in, and congratulated herself for so gracefully stealing the stilettos she was now wearing from the woman’s bag last week. Reya remembered the envy and arousal she felt watching the woman writhe, and reveled in the thought that she was having the same effect now. The sharp-tipped heels were a luminous mint green which she paired with an emerald sequin top, the glassy discs catching the light enticingly as she moved. Reya did not measure herself against the people whose attention she had taken but felt pleased with herself nonetheless as she opened the door for her handsome guest to enter her apartment behind her. She carefully slipped her new shoes off and placed them in the shoe rack, but this time on the top shelf, marking their increased value in her life. Reya gestured for her guest to follow her into the kitchen and immediately felt a stark difference in the way her body moved, as if the bones and ligaments had come undone and reconnected with stiff scar tissue. Her steps were more jerky, and any evidence of her lithe swaying had completely vanished. She blinked her eyes in consecutive flutters, Reya’s version of an eye roll that she was back to being her awkward-bodied self. No matter, she thought to herself, this man has had enough whiskey to not notice the difference. In the kitchen, she poured them both a glass of red wine as they engaged in half-whispered small talk and lingering eye contact. In between their sips, they slowly gravitated towards each other, shifting their postures until Reya was close enough to see the specks of amber in the stranger’s green eyes. He leaned towards her and planted a kiss on her lips, to which she responded by taking his hand and leading him to her bedroom where she dimmed the lights and put on smooth music rich with lush vocals. As Reya stepped back into the stranger’s arms he pulled away slightly, gently but firmly turning her around so her back was pressed against his chest leaving no space between their bodies. He rocked side to side, his hands on the flesh where her hips met her thighs, moving her softly with him. “Dance for me”, he mouthed hotly into her ear. She recognized from the way the stranger acted throughout the evening that if she had felt uncomfortable and asked him to leave, he would have done so respectfully, but she found that she didn’t want him to go. The more time she spent with the stranger, the more she liked him. He had a dry sense of humour aimed mostly at himself that she found charming. Reya thought it sweet the way he ran his hand through his hair when nervous, like he did just before he approached her on the dance floor or while he fiddled with the stem of his empty wine glass before kissing her. So, she let the liquor induced buzz convince her to try a few moves, how hard could it be to slowly toss and glide one’s hips? Very hard it turned out, as after a few seconds she could feel the stranger’s hands taking over again and guiding her to a different rhythm, that she wasn’t giving him what he thought he signed up to on the dance floor. She resented the numbing of her judgement, took a sharp breath in and turned to face him. She placed a hand on his chest, and with her eye-lids half closed seductively, she said “I have an idea, I’ll be right back.” A small questioning crease formed on the handsome man’s brows, but she ironed it away with a smile. Reya returned with nothing on but her mint green shoes. The next morning, having exchanged numbers with the stranger after a passionate night together and sent him on his way, she jumped into the shower, already late for work. She put on her scrubs for her shift and ran to the shoe rack. Furthest to the left was the pair of worn grey and white padded sneakers she was looking for. They were the first pair of shoes Reya had taken, although in this instance mistakenly, from the woman getting dressed next to her at the gym. They'd even made a joke of complimenting each other's tastes for having identical sneakers and how comfortable they felt while teaching raucous kids (Reya) or all-day doctoring in a hospital ward (the woman) yet they still both went home with the wrong pair. On the subway home she felt an itch on her outer-ankle, and as she bent to scratch it, she heard a voice hum “lateral malleolus”. Confused, she looked around her to see who had spoken but no one around her acted like they had heard let alone said anything. When Reya returned to her itch, she heard it again, “lateral malleolus.” As she dragged her fingers up to her lap the voice hummed “Fibula...Patella...Femur.” She moved her hands to her mouth in shock as Reya realized the voice was hers, that it came from within her mind. Although she had never heard these words before, she was confident they were naming her bones. Eventually the dots, that Reya was wearing a medic’s shoes and suddenly knowledge had spouted from her, had connected and as farfetched as it felt, she considered that she had somehow absorbed the knowledge of the previous owner through the sneakers. To test her theory, as soon as Reya got home, she poured herself a generous serving of vodka, threw in a single cube of ice, and plonked in front of the laptop. She searched some medical procedure names and would guess what they involved before reading on beyond the title, and found she was almost always correct. She then took the shoes off but kept them within her sight superstitiously and repeated her experiment, wondering if the information would stay with her. Without the shoes however, she couldn’t even remember the name of her leg bones, let alone procedural protocols. She concluded that these shoes held some magic, and decided to quit her job and study medicine, after all she knew she would pass. So here she was, years later, a successful doctor. The shoes did have deep signs of wear and tear, but she found a specialist mender who would repair the sneakers but always with an annoyed sigh that it would be cheaper to buy a new pair altogether. A few months into studying medicine the thought came to Reya that she hadn’t considered all the variables whilst doing her experiment. She had thought the shoes held some magic, but what if other shoes had the same effect on her. The next weekend was her friend Amy’s birthday party, and they had planned to get ready together at her house. Reya (conveniently) arrived having forgotten formal shoes for the evening, and apologetically asked if she could borrow some of Amy’s. “Of course!” she replied breezily, “Help yourself, they’re in my closet.” Reya took a deep breath before stepping into some patent black kitten heels and testing her knowledge of financial trading. She thought back to a conversation they had had a while ago, where the topic had gone completely over her head, but she remembered vaguely Amy using the term Options. It wasn’t overwhelming or shocking, just a calm intake of knowledge as Reya’s mind spoke “Trading Options is about trading volatility, if the market is more volatile one day the option will be more expensive, but if the market moves less the next day, then the option becomes cheaper.” “Huh” Reya whispered to herself as she removed her feet from the shoes, “this is going to be interesting.” Reya shook herself out of the reverie, looked fondly at her small shoe collection, and packed the studded boots that she had stolen from a semi-professional soccer player in her bag, along with the tennis shoes she’d snuck from her instructor in case she was in the mood tonight for some sports. Reya had been mulling that it was time for a promotion so set her eyes on a pair from a cardiologist she had spoken to a few times, maybe she would work on swiping those today. She smiled to herself as she closed her apartment door behind her.


I woke up after what felt like a good sleep, it had only been 6 hours according to my helmets holo-display. In that time I had travelled 168,978 kilometres at a consistent speed of 28,163 KM/H, some how managing to not be smeared to a pulp, which I can only assume is thanks to inertia dampeners in my suit. I guess the suit also has the means of recycling my air since I haven't suffocated to death yet - hi-tech shit. I've only ever seen tech like this in videos and in articles on those breaking edge tech sites the military has been pushing lately, probably trying to either scare us into being good citizens or romance us into becoming pawns for their disposal. Ever since the fucking Americans decided to put their orbital laser on display, by completely erradicating one of Chinas "secret" bases from space, the military has been looking for able bodies to throw at the war and enticing people with hi-tech gadgets they can play with is a damn good way to do it. I don't remember much from before I woke up, that's usually what happens when someone drugs you. The crew I was working with probably tried to jettisen me during their orbit and I'd picked up some speed and had been flung out into space, though why they put me in the suit was odd. If they wanted me dead, why go to the trouble of putting my unconcious body into this thing. Going over the past week of events in my head, using my augs to bring up memories as detailed as if they were a VR, I scrutinized every detail of every interaction with the crew I had. There was nothing note-worthy and no unintentional clues left for them either, whoever put me in this suit and shot me out here, it wasn't one of them. Using my augs to probe the suits systems, I found I was met with little resistance and after performing a standard integrity check, I was able to link with it. Going over system diagnostics I discovered that this really was some hi-tech shit. It had inertia dampeners, air recycling and (if necessary) production capabilities, solar cells with such effeciency that it could keep one if it's many batteries charged with miniscule amounts of light. It also constantly monitored my vitals, was capable of keeping my body alive through internal systems that kept the muscles from wasting away, it even emitted a mist that could be absorbed by my skin that gives me all the nutrients I need. Just like every other type of machine, the suits system was controlled by an AI, though this one would use it's array of internal and external sensors that it was connected to - via the suit - to keep me alive for as long as possible. Since it was an AI, I had the option of turning on it's companion mode and given that I was currently flying through space at a phenominal speed, I thought some company might not be such a bad idea. Using the channel provided by the link between my augs and the suits wireless interface, I sent a command to the suit and enabled companion mode and after an inperciptable delay, the AI spoke to me over our channel, I never liked talking with AIs like this, it messes with your head. "Thank you for turning on companion mode, I am the AI that controls this suit. Please send me your requests through our link or by speaking them, if that would make you more comfortable." It was more a thought than it was someone speaking, it was like having someone else's internal monologue in your head. "Restrict communications to auditory only," I said aloud "Is there anyway you can slow me down or even stop me?". A slight pause, almost as if it were another human, hesitating before telling me I'm fucked. "No." the cold voice coming through the speakers next to my ears. There was no point pushing the matter, it was an AI and could run millions of simulations in the time it took for me to take a breath. I noticed during my perusing of the systems functions that it had an emergency beacon that would emit a signal that could be followed, through space, to it's exact position from up to 750,000 kilometres away which is almost twice the distance between Earth and its moon, after that you would be facing some delays, most of which could be accounted for by prediction algorithims. I was hesitant on activating the emergency beacon as I still wasn't sure who put me in this thing and therefore who the signal might go to. "Who- owns you?" I posed the question, already knowing the answer, "You do." Of course- "Who built you?" "I was manufactorued by the SUNTO corporation and sold to a private buyer who made many modifications to my systems. The identity of the private buyer has been erased from my memory, at which time my ownership was transferred to you." Great. Usually when ownership of machines has changed hands, any kind of locator, tracking device or emergency beacon is automatically transferred over with it, which means that this suits emergency beacon will project to wherever my ID chip tells it to and since I don't have an ID chip, there is no emergency contact for it to send it's signal to. Fuck. "Are you capable of keeping me alive during re-entry?" "Yes - my systems have been uploaded with re-entry software and the suit has been installed with the necessary hardware. Provided there is a deep enough body of water to stop your fall, you should be able to survive re-entry." "Is there any way you can alter our course?" "No, normal steering thrusters are ineffective at these speeds." "Are we heading anywhere in particular" I asked the suit, hoping that I was sent on a specific course rather than a long, drawn out death. "It appears your trajectory may have been intentional. You are on a collision-free course for the planet known as 'Kepler 22b', I can find little information on this planet other than it is believed to be an exoplanet and a prime candidate to look for extra-terristrial life or to setup a colony." "Okay- your mysterious previous owner didn't happen to mention why they chose a planet that is multiple lifetimes away?" "I do not have any data available to answer that question, though I am fully equipped to keep you alive, in stasis, for the entirity of the journey. There is still no gurantee you will reach your destination alive - at least not in one piece." "Don't have much of a fucking choice do I?!" I muttered angrily, more for my own benefit than the AIs, "Stupid- suit." I squeezed out awkwardly as I felt the slow creep of the stasis taking hold slowing down my mind and body.


Trust me, trust us, you say every time, sugar sweet and sleepy. Everything will be fine--have you ever known me to lie to you? Have you ever known me to spread untruth? You say, I have never led you astray. And then you smile, showing your teeth, and you laugh, showing your tongue, and your words curl up around my neck like a centipede scarf, some warm, limp, many-legged thing, and I think, every time, oh very well, and it marks the beginning of my surrender. I have come to see you as a curse of sorts. Did you know? Despite the human face and the hands in mine, you reside in my mind as a wicked thing. ‘Oh, I had no idea,’ you hum. ‘So what makes you say that?’ ‘What?’ I say. ‘What?’ I wring my fingers and drag my nails down the length of my palms. Curious, you tilt your head. You are always very curious. Relentlessly so. The other day you came to me as I sat at my laptop and checked my emails, leaning over my shoulder and pressing your cold skull against my temple. I thought about asking you to leave me be, but you settled yourself beside me and peered at the screen. ‘You’ve been doing this for a while. Aren’t you tired? Hungry?’ ‘I’ve only started,’ I replied. ‘And it isn’t lunch yet.’ ‘But aren’t you hungry? I am. And I’m very bored. Come and keep me company.’ So you tugged me up and dragged me to the dusty kitchen. The dining table is tall and rectangular. If someone were to put a cloth over it, I think it would look like an altar. Going to the fridge, I kneeled and rifled through the shelves and drawers, all of them partially-filled. ‘What do you want to eat?’ I asked. There were a pack of nectarines wrapped up in plastic and cardboard and they were rotting, somewhat, paling and wrinkling and shrouding themselves in faint mold. ‘We have some fruit,’ I said. ‘But none of it is good.’ ‘No fruit,’ you said from the floor where you sprawled. And so I set the nectarines aside, and the round, golden pears, and the grapes, because those had gone grey. I heaved myself up and looked at the shelf above. Everything there was frozen, or at least very cold. A bottle of water gone limpid. There was a jar of tartar sauce that knocked against my knuckles as I nudged different objects out of the way. A container of baby cucumbers, a small wheel of camembert, a vacuum-sealed packet of smoked trout. I moved the jar to the top shelf. The thick grey matter on the outside of it stained my fingers. ‘We have some leftovers,’ I said. The night before this one we ate fried rice and left it unfinished because you brought dessert out far earlier than we really should have, and I had to pull cling-wrap over the top of the bowl and store it for later. ‘Do you want the leftovers? We should finish it soon, or it’ll go bad.’ ‘I’m afraid I’m not quite hungry,’ you said. So I put the food back in the fridge. You do this often. You’re horribly fickle. Each word released from your mouth is an inconstant thing. You might usher me to bed one moment and rattle me awake the next because you are bored and lonely in your own head. ‘But a curse?’ you say with many teeth. ‘I don’t think I deserve this slander. You had to rearrange the fridge anyway. Now come. Why don’t we go on a walk? I think you’ll feel much calmer after. Trust me.’ It’s been raining very hard recently: strong winds and bulging droplets of water, swollen and cold. The puddles soak through the worn soles of my shoes and every step is a squelch of discomfort. Outside is a mess of tumbling greys and blues, the trees are wet and tired, the sky is dripping down into the gutters, I have an assignment that I have yet to complete--some electronic poster due in three days. You ask me about it, stepping idly around the dead worms all over the pavement. ‘I thought we were going on a walk,’ I frown. ‘Why are you asking me about it?’ ‘Well, why don’t you multitask? You can think up your ideas out here in the rain, and once you come home, you’ll be able to type it out. Clever, clever, isn’t it?’ ‘I’ve tried that before,’ I sigh. ‘I can’t concentrate.’ You flick your gaze at me and laugh. ‘‘This time will be different! Trust me. Have you ever known me to lie?’ We walk out in the storm for longer than you said we would earlier. Much longer than those few minutes, more than an hour, perhaps two. Hm? You say as we pass beneath a bridge. There are centipedes grooming themselves on the rocks, moving their mouths over their many, many legs. You nudge them with your foot and they all go skittering away, abandoning their tasks. You hum, it’s okay, let’s stay out a little longer. It’ll be fine. You’re still thinking, aren’t you? It’ll work out. We come home and the sky has poured itself into the storm drains, leaving only a thick, dark clog behind. The moon and the stars all look like faint, whitish smudges in the night smog and the front gate is covered in water, creaks loudly as it opens. I don’t really do my assignment that day. It’s mostly alright. I have a little more time, and it should all work out. Instead, I sit at the dining table and peel the grapes. First I wash them, rub off the sticky wet with water to make it smooth and clean, and then the skin comes off, shiny, fragrant, and then the layer of it that has gone squishy and overly sweet until only the center is left, the seeds bitter and crunching between my teeth. ‘You’re going to stay there?’ you ask me, leaning over my shoulder, your perch. ‘I’m too tired to feel like moving,’ I say absently, ‘including my brain.’ ‘You have a terrible procrastination habit,’ you tell me. I hum to myself, digging my nails under the skin of a new grape. ‘You don’t say.’ --- (Note to me: Please do your assignments. Stop going to the fridge to stare at the food. Just do it. Please.)


TW: Themes of mental health, physical violence, and death Adina Rialto was bored. Twelve months ago, she had been the winningest fighter to come out of the Bruised Knuckles club. Now, no one would fight her. Her phone only rang when her agent had a new brand sponsorship that wanted to use her success for themselves. She’d been competitive from the moment her parents had signed her up for her first sports camp at five. They had been trying to find an outlet for her endless energy. It had kept her busy, but had also cultivated a ruthless need to win at everything in her life. Adina conquered the soccer field then took on the football field - making every boy who laughed at her on the line eat her dust as she scored again and again. She still holds the record for most points scored by a running back at Yamara High School. Her teammates may have hated her since she demanded plays revolve around her, but Adina Rialto couldn’t have cared less. She was the best, no matter what challenged her. That attitude had come with her to the octagon. There was no one who doubted that she was good, but there were those who felt she was too ruthless. If Adina saw an opening, she took it. Those openings had caused several career ending injuries. Her last opponent was still in a coma, effectively shadow-banning Adina from future fights. A year without the roar of a crowd screaming around her. A year without hundreds of eyes on her while she pounded her superiority into her opponents. A year without the adrenaline high of winning. She’d do just about anything to get another hit of that natural drug in her veins. Adina had half-heartedly tried other sports. Triathlons didn’t give her the same feeling of glory when there were hundreds of other competitors and crowds only saw the finish line. Two to three hours of effort with spectators only watching the last sprint? Not what she was looking for. The adult leagues for games like soccer and flag football didn’t appreciate Adina’s drive, either. Most of those players were looking for casual games to enjoy after work and some friends to drink with. They wanted the type of “fun” that included participation trophies. -- When her phone rang this morning, Adina ignored it. She focused instead on the bag in front of her. Left, right, jab. Right, left, kick. Sweat ran in rivers off of her arms, coating the concrete floor of her personal gym. She may not be competing, but Adina maintained peak conditioning. If she was asked to be in a fight tomorrow night, she’d be ready to be its champion. Her phone’s ringtone again interrupted the pounding base rattling through her headphones. Adina sighed and stepped back from the punching bag. It was probably her agent. Norman had stopped leaving messages lately and taken to calling repeatedly until she picked up. He knew it was annoying and the only way he’d get her to answer. Adina grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat away from her body and accepted the call. “Norman, if this is another offer from Nike to be a brand ambassador, I will hang up.” “Well, hello to you, too.” After a moment of charged silence, Norman stopped waiting for pleasantries. To her agent’s credit, he tried to instill some sort of manners into her. She just wasn’t interested in caring about other people. “To answer your question, no, this is not about Nike. That deal is off the table. Honestly, Adina, you make it difficult for me to do my job when you refuse any of the offers I work so hard to get for you.” Another beat of silence. Adina wasn’t interested in having this conversation with Norman, again. So, she wouldn’t. “I hear how apologetic you are in your breathing.” The joviality in Norman’s voice had gone down a level or two. He might finally get to the point so Adina could get back to her workout. “Anyway, I have a new client who would like to work with you. She’s the latest star rising in the MMA arena and she wants you to be her coach. She’s already won the national belt and wants you-” Adina threw the headset off into the gym mirror. A large crack formed on the reflective surface. Her broken image stared back at her, shoulders and chest heaving in anger. A coach? Adina hadn’t fallen that far. In fact, she was entering her prime years. The athletes most remembered by history usually found they only got better as they aged. She was only a few years away from thirty, which was the decade she always dreamed of achieving the status of a legend. Coaching was not in her future. Her body had not come even close to washing out yet. Besides, what was it they always said? “Those who can’t do, teach.” Adina was no coach. Muffled words were still coming from the headphones on the floor, but Adina picked up her phone and ended the call. She really needed to get out tonight and let loose. It was rare that she ever drank, but Adina would risk one night to clear her head. Tomorrow, she would start planning for her comeback. -- Adina sat tucked away in the shadows of one of the bar's few tables and sipped on whatever whiskey she had been given, feeling the base of the music rattling through her bones. Her attention never left her phone’s screen, where she watched dozens of highlights from Nadia Cruz’s fights. It hadn’t been hard to figure out Norman’s new client was this slip of a girl. In Adina’s absence, Nadia had entered her rookie season and promptly stepped over dozens of experienced fighters to take Adina’s throne. She’s just keeping it warm for me . Adina didn’t want to admit it, but there was a small piece of her that felt threatened by the youth. Nadia was good . Real good. Her form was no less than perfect. Each punch showed her indomitable strength. Nadia was an outstanding athlete in her own right. But Adina was still better. An idea came to Adina, then. She should wait until tomorrow, after the alcohol had left her system and she had gone through all the risks, but an excited heat raced through Adina’s veins. Swiping to her text messages, Adina opened her chat with Norman and typed. “Tell Nadia Cruz I will train her if she can beat me in a show match.” Before any more doubt could hold her back, Adina hit send. -- It was a great idea. Though Norman had been hesitant to put his two star clients into the same match and risk permanent injury, he hadn’t been able to deny the money opportunity. Adina Rialto coming back to reclaim her throne from the newcomer, Nadia Cruz. Sales for access to stream the fight were record-breaking. And for the most loyal fans, ringside seats had brought in an additional small fortune of profits. It was the show match of the decade. Nadia herself had responded with a signed contract in less than twelve hours. It added to Adina’s pride, knowing that the young fighter had seen the value in the opportunity. At the weigh in, Adina had watched Nadia’s every move. The way she balanced on the balls of her toes, even while waiting for the referee. Every sculpt of visible muscle was analyzed and Adina was pretty sure the rookie was slightly favoring her right shoulder. Nadia had held her arm tight to her body when passing near anyone. For a few moments, Adina had considered offering to reschedule to fight. She wanted to win, yes, but she needed it to be a win that proved she was the best. If her opponent wasn’t one hundred percent healthy, would they truly know that? But the energy that had surged through the press had already invaded Adina’s mind. Many of the journalists in the crowd were the same ones who’d followed much of her MMA career. They had yelled to be heard during her conference session and most of them asked if she was ready to be a champion again. Adina was an addict falling off the wagon after too long a time sober. Every nerve felt electric as she had fed off of the adoration. -- An hour before the fight, Norman was sprinting between both locker rooms, trying to oversee the needs of both of his stars. When he’d come to Adina with a fifth sponsorship offer for the night, Adina had pushed him out the door and locked it. She needed the quiet - to empty herself before she gorged on the cheers of the crowd. This moment was going to put Adina back on her path to becoming the legend she dreamed she could be. She knew she’d always pushed the boundaries with her brutality, though she’d never meant for Jessa Goodwin to end up a vegetable. They had given her the title belt after that fight, but she’d hidden it in her closet instead of displaying it with her many other trophies. Adina had known that she hadn’t really won - Jessa had just lost. Adina needed this win for more than the affirmation of her skill. She needed it to redeem her image. She needed other athletes to accept fights with her again. Norman hammered his fist into the door and yelled, “It’s time to go, Adina!” -- Adina’s heart beat so hard she thought it was trying to explode from her chest. The lights, the noise, the people all looking at her as the announcer called her out. It was euphoric. When she was too old to compete anymore, she hoped she could die in one last fight, so she could feel this as she went to the mat for the last time. She was getting distracted. Adina’s brain was in sensory overload, trying to process every single thing happening around her. Taking it all in was impossible, but she found herself trying. Focus. Focus on Nadia. She’s across the octagon. Let’s catch her eye and stare her down like I used to . A few deep breaths while she glared at Nadia had done little to take the edge off, but Adina was still confident her body wouldn’t have forgotten how to fight. Even if her thoughts felt a little slow. She just needed a round to shake off the dust. It would excite the crowd, anyway. They’d paid for a fight, not a one-round knockout. Adina checked the wraps on her hands and found them shaking. She’d never felt this way before starting a fight. The exhilaration was almost too much. Adina clenched her fingers a few times to crush the panic that was edging its way in. The moment was just getting to her a bit. She’d be fine once the whistle blows. Chest tight, Adina stepped up to the center of the octagon. She looked down slightly at the other woman. “Bring only your best, Nadia.” The rookie beamed back at her. -- Norman picked up the newspaper his assistant had left on his desk and opened it to the sports section. He skimmed past the headlining story - some bullshit about announcing the artist for the Super Bowl halftime show. Who cares ? He found what he was looking for in the bottom left column. INFAMOUS MMA CHAMPION, ADINA RIALTO DEAD AFTER SHOWMATCH ACCIDENT See more on page 12 Norman flipped the page again to find the article. He was now glad for the Super Bowl story. It had kept this story and his name from the front page of the sports section. The article was a brief account of the “tragedy.” There should be minimal PR risk from it. Norman had taken a gamble, allowing Adina to fight his rising star. In truth, he’d been considering dropping Adina from his talent roster. No one had wanted to fight her after the way she’d brutalized Jessa Goodwin. Adina had gone from being just a liability to a liability that didn’t make any money. The match, however, had paid for itself ten times over with the number of viewers who had tuned in. It indeed had been the event of the decade. The first three rounds had been an even match. Adina and Nadia had traded good hits, neither holding back. The crowd loved every second. Norman was a little worried since he’d seen the way Adina’s hands had shaken after being announced, but he’d written it off as excitement. All that woman did was train. He knew she was going to be fine. But, when round four began, Norman saw Adina’s eyes move between Nadia and the crowd. Every time they yelled, she lost her focus, almost turning to smile a few times. Nadia’s fist would bring Adina back just in time to be blocked. Then, a young girl sitting ringside yelled, “Go Adina! You’re my hero, Adina!” The girl couldn’t have been older than ten. She wore a t-shirt with a large print of Adina’s face covering her from neck to hips. Norman had watched with horror as Adina fully stopped and turned to the girl. Her eyes sparkled while her lips spread in the biggest smile Norman had ever seen from her. A split-second later, Adina was no longer standing and Nadia’s hands had immediately covered her own shocked face. The referee called the medical team in and they shifted Adina’s limp body to a stretcher. The arena had been silent while they ran her to the tunnels. Nadia “Knee Buster” Cruz. That’s the stupid name the fans had given her. The young athlete had been horrified after receiving the news that Adina hadn't made it. Nadia just liked MMA. She never thought there was any risk that someone would die on the mat. At least her reputation didn’t seem to suffer the way Adina’s had. Though, unlike Adina, Nadia hadn’t been on thin ice before causing massive brain damage to another fighter. Nadia was taking a short break and seeing a therapist, but she would be back and making Norman money soon. She’d already accepted a contract as a spokesperson for Nike and Norman had received positive replies when floating the idea of future fights for her. Nadia Cruz still had a career left and he would make sure she got the best opportunities. Norman was happy to let Adina’s legacy fade out of the world’s memory, along with page 12 of today’s paper.


TW: murder Midsummer, and the sun was dipping behind the broad-leafed beeches, staining their crowns with crimson. Up on the downs, shadow was mantling the recumbent fields and shrouding the hedgerows and thickets in night’s cool embrace. From somewhere in a hawthorn tree, a blackbird shaped smooth, rich notes into twilight melodies. From his bedroom window, Peter watched the sunset in silent anticipation. One of the longest days of the year was drawing to its close and his wait was almost over. He glanced over at the torch on his desk. Picking it up, he pressed the button on its casing and a pale glow emanated from the bulb. Good. Working fine. Peter looked back out towards the downs, which stood now in silent silhouette against the night sky, rising in the distance above the tile roofs of the houses opposite. The sun had vanished into the dark earth like a tomb and the stars were winking into their places on the violet horizon. “Peter?” “What is it Mum?” “Come down and help with the washing up.” Peter jumped off his chair and headed to the kitchen, submerging his hands in the warm soapy suds as he scrubbed furiously at the dinner plates. Again and again, he stole glances at the clock on the wall. The big hand hardly seemed to move. Peter sighed in annoyance. “OK Peter?” His mother asked as she entered the kitchen, putting the kettle on the boil. “Sure, Mum.” “You ought to take yourself off to bed soon. It’s getting late for a school day. I’ll finish the rest.” Peter nodded and said goodnight, climbing the stairs back to his bedroom. Pulling the door to, he sat back down at his desk and reached for a magazine to leaf through as he waited. Again, he found his glance repeatedly drawn away from its pages to his bedroom clock. Ten o’ clock. Quarter past ten. Half past. Quarter to eleven. Outside his door, he heard his mother’s footsteps creaking on the landing. The twang of the bathroom light pull cord and the rhythmic brushing of teeth. Another twang as the bathroom light was turned off. More footsteps across the landing, to his mother’s bedroom. The door closed shut. Then - silence. Minutes passed. Clutching the torch in one hand, Peter tip-toed to his own bedroom door and slowly cracked it open, peering out into the shadowy landing. Carefully, stealthily, he crept through the darkness and down the stairs, towards the front door. His heart in his throat, his chest thudding, he lifted the latch and eased the door open. Peter paused, peering over the threshold. From beyond, the night stared back at him. With one last look back into the gloom of the house, Peter stepped out onto the street and quietly closed the door behind him. Under the dull orange glow of the street lamps, Peter stole down the road, casting careful glances about himself as he did so. His steps sounded heavy and oppressive in the night stillness. The lean shape of a fox trotted briskly across Peter’s path, stopping to look back at him before disappearing into a dark mass of garden hedge. “Psst - Pete!” Turning, Peter saw the figure of a teenage boy lounging beside a lamppost. “Chris!” “Nice one, Pete,” Chris said, ambling over to join his friend. “Gave your mum the slip then?” “Yeah, just about. We’d better get up the Ring, then - how long we got?” “About an hour until midnight.” Chris checked his watch. “Yeah - let’s get going.” The two boys walked at a quick pace, down another road and then up a path leading between trees which leaned in close upon them. As they walked uphill, the trees grew thicker around them until they were in woods. “You know my dad always said there used to be a tunnel which led right from our street all the way up to the hill fort on the Ring,” Chris said. “Yeah?” “Yeah. It was all one big estate in the old times. He said the entrance to the tunnel was hidden in the manor house that used to be there, and that there was buried treasure right at the end of it. Apparently when they came to demolish the house, the workmen found the tunnel and tried to explore - but they were scared away by the huge snakes guarding it. House was knocked down and the tunnel was never found again.” “I’d not heard that one before.” “No? Dad used to tell me all the stories. He said that magic was still alive on the Downs. You know that this was one of the last pagan places in all England? The magic was something left over from the old times, Dad used to say. Ghostly highwaymen and strange lights in the night sky, that kind of thing. It was Dad that told me about the Midsummer Tree.” Peter looked over at Chris as they continued to walk. It was hard to make out his expression in the shadow. “Oh yeah?” “That’s right. I think he liked to scare me and Sarah with it when we were little. He always liked the creepier stories, Dad. And Midsummer - Dad said that this is the day of the year when the walls between the worlds were at their thinnest. When the spirits walk more freely on the earth.” “Reckon we’ll see them tonight, then?” Chris asked, off-hand. Even as he spoke the words, he was aware of the hairs starting up on the back of his neck. “Who, the dead? That’s why we’re going, isn’t it?” The boys continued walking in silence for a few minutes. Left to his thoughts, Peter began to realise he didn’t feel quite so enthusiastic as he had earlier while waiting to head out, in the safety and comfort of his bedroom. The boys’ torch beams arced through the darkness as they pushed forwards and upwards, but pressing in upon them on all sides was deep, suffocating gloom. Familiar paths now seemed strange and uncanny under the shadow of night, tinged with an almost supernatural unreality. “Dad used to say the Green Man walked in these woods,” Chris said, breaking the silence. “The Green Man?” “Yeah - he’s a god, or a spirit - face covered in oak leaves. Dad said you could feel his presence sometimes, watching you.” “Sure that wasn’t just the hobo? The one Edders said he saw in his den that time.” Chris laughed. “Nah, hobo wasn’t around back then. Dad never mentioned him anyway. He would have known.” Another minute of silence as the boys continued to walk. Twigs and fallen leaves crunched under foot. This time it was Peter who spoke up. “Are you all...are you all doing OK? You and your mum. Sarah.” “Miss him every day, Pete. It’s just...I’d do anything to see him again.” “He’d probably be pleased you were so into all this though, right...all the folklore and stuff.” “Yeah, guess you’re right.” The boys trudged on in silence again. Peter tried to steal another glance at Chris’ face in the darkness, but it was impossible to read. He wondered if he’d been right in asking his question, or whether he should have let it lie. He knew how close Chris and his father had been. How one summer night two years ago Chris’ father had left home and never returned. How Chris had waited, waited, waited. How, at only twelve years old, Chris had sat in black at his father’s funeral, staring through eyes blurry with tears at the empty coffin. Denied a chance to even properly mourn. Denied a final goodbye. Ahead of the boys, the trees began to open up once more, and a dark, broad shape rose ahead of them like a great black whale surfaced from the deep, its top flattened except for a few sparse trees that stood like sentinels on its rim, stark against the starlight. The Ring. Long, long ago it had been a hill fort, a great circular enclosure in which the ancient dwellers of the Downs had huddled together for protection against their enemies and the elements. Within the stockade which no longer stood, they had lit bonfires to banish the cold and dark; yet beyond its mighty ramparts unseen terrors had lurked and prowled in the shadow. Now, two small figures climbed the steep steps cut into its slope, casting thin threads of light from their torches as they picked out their paths. An eerie scream pierced the night air and Peter froze, his blood running suddenly cold. Then, he realised to his relief that he recognised the cry. A vixen. Just another fox. “There’s all sorts of stories about this place,” Chris said, his breath now short from the effort of the ascent. “The fort was here before England even existed - before the Romans even. Dad said they used to bury pagan kings here, in big mounds. Look! That’s probably one there.” Clambering over the rim of the hill, the boys had stopped, panting, under the stars. Peter followed Chris’ glance and saw a grey, swelling shape lying some way off, silent and still in the gloom. As Peter looked, the shape seemed to resolve itself into the figure of a man reposing corpse-like under the sky. A slight breath of wind gently stirred the grass at Peter’s feet and he shivered involuntarily. “Come on,” Chris said. “The Midsummer Tree’s nearer the centre.” As the boys trekked across the Ring, Peter felt as if an invisible, brooding presence was watching them - whether from the thick copse of trees over to their right, or hanging unseen in the very air, he couldn’t say. The night breeze seemed to murmur around them as if whispering in an ancient, long-dead tongue. “There!” Chris cried in sudden excitement, quickening his pace and pointing. “That’s it! The Midsummer Tree.” There it stood, a gnarled, twisted carcass of a tree, its trunk split open to reveal a gaping black void within. A tangled mass of roots crept tentacle-like across the ground towards the boys; more roots reached out like pale fingers from the soil. A thick canopy of oak leaves bent out from the top of the trunk, a sign that, despite its decrepit appearance, the tree still lived. It had stood there for centuries. Peter stood looking up at it, its warped boughs yellow in the glow of his torch. This is what they had come to see. He recalled what Chris had told him about the tree, when he’d first tried to convince him to sneak out on Midsummer night and climb the Ring. Peter wasn’t sure now whether he wanted to believe the story or not. “How long now?” Peter asked, uneasily. “It’s two minutes to midnight,” Chris replied, staring hard at his watch. “Come on, quick - we should get under cover.” The boys picked their way over to a nearby clump of bracken and crouched carefully in the fronds. “Lights off,” said Chris, in a whisper now. The torches clicked off and the beams died. As Peter stared into the gloom, his eyes gradually began to become accustomed to the dark. There, not far from where they crouched, stood the Midsummer Tree, appearing now like some unearthly giant bent-double towards them under the waxing moon. The soft hooting of an owl sounded from nearby. “You don’t really believe it...do you Chris?” “What?” “This. All of this. Skeletons rising from the ground at the stroke of midnight on Midsummer night...dancing round the tree...” “Dad said there’s ancient magic in this place,” Chris replied, his gaze fixed on the Midsummer Tree. “In the Ring...at the tree...and not just the skeletons...” Peter shifted uncomfortably, the bracken crackling beneath his feet. The fronds seemed to snatch at his ankles. “Yeah but...it’s just a story, isn’t it?” For a moment, a deathly silence. Then: “Midnight. It’s midnight,” Chris whispered, tapping his watch. Peter forced himself to look back towards where the monstrous black shape of the Midsummer Tree loomed up from the ground. All was still in the darkness. Moments passed. “Well I don’t see them,” Peter said. His voice sounded more unsteady than he’d have liked. “I guess we’d better go then?” “Shh - wait.” Peter turned to look at his friend. Chris was staring intently at the tree, his brows furrowed. “Nothing’s happening, Chris,” Peter said, more insistently this time. “Come on, let’s go.” “Shut up!” Chis hissed, grabbing Peter’s arm. “Look - there!” Turning back to look at the tree, Peter saw - nothing. But then, as he continued to peer into the darkness, the shadows around the trunk seemed to melt and shift in the spectral gloom, now leaping up to the lower branches, now tripping round the roots. Ghostly grins seemed to appear and vanish under leaves which rustled and whispered in the breeze. Peter felt the hairs pricking up on his bare arms and a chill seizing him. His heart began to beat fast against his chest. Beside him, Chris’ breathing sounded rapidly. “I can see them,” Chris whispered. “It’s true. The dance of the dead - round and round they’ll go, all night...then at cock-crow they’ll sink back silently into the earth, as if they’d never been...It’s just as Dad said. It’s all true.” “It’s shadows, Chris. Just a trick of the light.” The grip on Peter’s arm tightened. That’s when Peter saw it. Glinting wickedly in the moonlight, held in Chris’ free hand. A knife. “What the hell?” “I can bring him back, Pete,” Chris breathed, his eyes wide. “I can bring Dad home.” “The hell?” Peter wrenched himself out of Chris’ grasp and stumbled backwards onto his feet, keeping his eye fixed on the blade. “Why’ve you got a knife for God’s sake?” Chris was on his feet like a coiled spring. Holding the knife out towards Peter, he began to advance slowly towards him, his face set with a frightening, steely determination. “It needs a blood sacrifice,” he said. “To feed the roots of the tree. To join them .” “You’re out of your mind,” cried Peter in disbelief. “Get the hell away from me!” He turned, hurtling himself forward and away from his friend. Towards the Midsummer Tree. As he stumbled forward, something gripped his ankle and he tripped sideways, staggering against the trunk. Within moments, Chris was upon him, slashing at him with the knife. Peter screamed in pain, instinctively clutching his arm and falling forward upon his knees onto the tangled mass of roots. From between his fingers, blood oozed out, dripping to the ground and blotting the soil. His head thudding, he looked up and saw Chris standing above him, still gripping the blade. A second passed, then Chris seemed to reel back, the knife clattering to the earth inches from Peter’s knee. As Peter tried to clamber up, his arm still searing with pain, he saw that the figure of a man had hold of Chris by both shoulders. His eyes burned fierce in a face half hidden beneath a great mass of beard and he was repeating something over and over as Chris tried to break free from his grasp. Another moment, and Chris thudded into the trunk of the tree as the man slipped backwards. There was a sickening crunch as his head hit the ground. Then - silence, save for the sound of the boys’ heavy panting. Peter reached out and grabbed the knife, easing himself slowly up onto his feet. His arm throbbed with pain where it had been slashed. Nearby, the man lay sprawled on the ground, his feet stretched towards Peter. He fumbled in his pocket for his torch and shone it onto the face. In the pale glow, he saw crimson skeins trickling out from under the man’s hair. Eyes set deep in the face stared back lifelessly. “He’s dead, Chris,” Peter said, his voice quavering. “You’ve killed him.” There was no response. Peter swung the torch beam to his side. Chris sat sunken against the trunk of the Midsummer Tree, arms gripped around his knees. His eyes were wide and fixed on the corpse. “Chris - you’ve killed him,” Peter repeated. “For God’s sake, Chris.” “It’s him,” Chris whispered, barely audible. “It’s Dad.” “What?” “I didn’t see...I didn’t know...it’s Dad.” Peter glanced again at the body, at the matted mass of hair and beard, at the tattered jacket and the shabby trousers. “It’s the hobo, Chris. It’s not your dad.” Chris shook his head slowly, still not taking his eyes off the cadaver. “He kept...he kept saying my name. He said - ‘Chris’.” “You don’t know what you heard - you’re half out of your mind! You tried to kill me for God’s sake!” Chris was still shaking his head, as if transfixed. Then, again, a cracked whisper: “It’s my Dad.” Peter stared in horror at the ghastly sight before him: at his friend crouched in shock against the tree, at the figure lying stretched out lifelessly across its ancient roots. It couldn’t possibly be Chris’ dad...could it? The body was never found . But no. Everyone had known that he was dead - even Chris had never questioned that. Peter felt a sudden uncanny chill as the other, more eerie possibility floated unbidden into his mind. He felt his wound throbbing, the blood still oozing out and splashing onto the roots of the tree at his feet. From the darkened boughs of the Midsummer Tree above him, a white owl glided out ghost-like into the night. And round and round its ancient trunk, the spectral shadows danced.